Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree
by Rector
Summary: A romance. What is it like to be married to Mycroft Holmes? Romantic interludes, action, adventure, Chess, and unspeakably fiendish goings-on. A Cate and Mycroft story.
1. Chapter 1

**Acknowledgements:**

This is _another_ non-profit indulgence based upon characterisations developed by Messrs. Moffat, Gatiss and Thompson for the BBC series _Sherlock_. The character of Mycroft has been brought to life through the acting skills of Mr. Gatiss. No transgression of copyright or licence is intended.

**Author's Note:**

This story is a direct sequel to "The Education of Mycroft Holmes". Reading this sequel will make so much more sense if you have read the original tale first.

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**Mycroft Holmes: A Terminal Degree**

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_**Chapter One**_

_An Offer – A Damnable Man – The Legal Visit – Partners Or Nothing – Witchcraft – The Dilemma – One Other Thing – Foot in the Door – To the Ball – A Fragrance of Gun Oil._

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"Dean?" Cate looked surprised.

The University Bursar, Ruth Howells, smiled. "Don't tell me you hadn't thought about it?" she said.

Giving a little shrug, Cate smiled back. "I _have_ had one or two things on my plate recently," she laughed. "Haven't really had an opportunity to come back to earth yet."

Catherine Adin, or rather, Adin_-Holmes_ as she now signed, was still finding her feet in the rather rarefied world of marriage to Mycroft Holmes, eldest scion of a British family distinguished by a tradition of service to the Crown.

Everything was still a little new; a little strange. And rather wonderful. The relationship between them had happened despite themselves, it seemed, amid murders and a level of cloak-and-dagger behaviour that claimed several lives and risked many more. That was in the recent past: the present was a little calmer, although, living with a man like Mycroft, _calm_ was never going to be the easiest word to accommodate. There were many, far more appropriate ones: delightful; exciting; romantic; infuriating. Cate smiled again as her mind wandered …

"And take that silly grin off your face before you meet the Vice Chancellor," Ruth sighed. "Or he'll think his jokes are funny and we'll never get any business finished."

###

As the weather was forecast fine for the weekend, they had driven down to _Deepdene_ for a few days. The Holmes country residence in Surrey was an Edwardian house set in several acres of lush landscape, and Cate had fallen in love with it before she had realised she had also fallen for Mycroft. She adored the place and used any pretext to spend time here.

It was early: the dawn light was still pink. Waking, Cate looked at Mycroft and saw he was still asleep. He must have been tired as he was almost always the one who woke first. Scooting over in the big bed, Cate rested her head against his bare chest, taking pleasure in the warm feel of his skin, the softness of his relaxed muscles, his scent. She enjoyed these moments of being close and stretched herself down along the length of the man who held the key to her happiness. Closing her eyes, Cate felt herself relaxing back into a drowsy slumber just as a warm hand brushed up her side to her neck.

"Good morning, my love," a soft rumble in his chest as Mycroft hooked his arm behind her back and pressed her close, his mouth following the line of her jaw to beneath her ear. Sensation zipped down her back to her toes and Cate couldn't help the small frisson that juddered through her. She felt the mouth on her skin smile. He thoroughly enjoyed that she had no authority over her body's responses to him. She groaned softly. "Unfair."

"Don't be cross, Cate," his voice was happy as he grazed her throat with his lips. "You love me."

And she did. Every time he said it, her stomach gave a little shimmy of unadulterated pleasure. Sliding her arms around his neck, Cate pulled herself even closer, resting her cheek against a roughness of unshaven skin.

"You are a damnable man," she whispered. "And I am mad for you."

"I am your damnable husband," Mycroft murmured, pressing her back against the pillows, blue eyes alight with appreciation and satisfaction. "And I fully intend to exploit your madness," he said, finding her mouth and kissing her deeper into the soft bedding.

###

Apparently, they were expecting a visitor. A professional visitor, not a guest. Unusual for anyone to come here other than for social reasons, but Cate was fully aware that in Mycroft's work, sometimes discretion was the most important part of any meeting.

"Want me to disappear into the garden?" she asked at breakfast, pouring more tea.

Sitting, relaxed in the morning sun, Mycroft turned and shook his head. "This visit is as much in your interest as mine," he said. "More, actually."

"Who is it?"

"My solicitor."

"Your legal advisor is coming to see you here?"

"Yes."

Cate looked curious. "Why is a visit from your solicitor more in my interest than yours?" she asked, puzzled.

"Mycroft smiled loftily. "Wait and see."

"You know I dislike not knowing things," Cate aimed for indignant. "It vexes me."

Lowering his newspaper, Mycroft was patient. "Just some things you need to know now that we are legally together," he said.

"Thank you." Cate's intense curiosity was barely placated. She considered Mycroft's explanation and formulated a possible reason behind the meeting. If it was for what she imagined, it might be advisable for her to do a little work. Just in case.

"When are we to expect said visitor?" she asked.

"Oh, any time after ten, or so," Mycroft looked at her. "Why?"

"Then I have time for a little research before he," she looked inquiring, "or _she,_ arrives."

"_He_." Mycroft raised his eyebrows. "A quite handsome and young 'he', in fact."

"Interesting method for selecting your legal representative," Cate grinned. "I'd prefer mine to be as old and wrinkled as possible."

"Comes from a long line of old and wrinkled advisors," Mycroft looked amused.

"So," Cate was intrigued. "You want me to meet this young and handsome legal-eagle," she paused. "Tired of me already?"

Meeting her teasing smile, Mycroft put his newspaper down and walked over to her chair. Pulling her upright, he held her against him. "Do you really want to know how tired I am of you," he asked in a deceptively quiet voice.

"Are you tired of me?" Cate slid her arms up his back.

"Completely tired," he said, kissing her. "Utterly and completely," he said, drawing her into his embrace and into a kiss that Cate could feel tingling in the arches of her feet.

"I have work to do," Cate husked.

"Are you sure?" Mycroft kept his arms tight around her, his eyes suggestive.

"If this visit you're choosing not to tell me about is about what I think it may be about, then I have some information to find," she breathed into his shirt, then grinned wickedly against him. "And maybe later we can discuss how tired of me you are."

"_Bargain_," Mycroft pressed his lips against the side of her neck. Marrying Cate had been one of the most intelligent and sensible things he had ever done, and this morning's meeting would only emphasise his belief.

Booting up her laptop, Cate hit the Stock Exchange pages, moving rapidly into the Dow Jones blue chip listings. Jotting down a few numbers, she cursed her numeric inability as she struggled to calculate averages and point-values. It would likely take Mycroft only a few seconds to do this, but she didn't want to involve him. Not yet. He may well have information for her, but, Cate thought, she might have one or two surprises for him.

Fortunately, she managed to marshal all her facts and figures in time to hear the crunch of gravel as a car pulled to a halt in the drive. Slipping a folded sheet of numbers and names into her jeans pocket, she went to get the tea things ready before greeting Mycroft's guest.

Simon Melnick was indeed both young and very pleasing to the eye. Of middle height, he had Hollywood good-looks and a charming smile. Shaking his hand, Cate threw a mischievous glance at Mycroft's forbearing expression.

"Please," he said. "Call me Simon," as he followed them into the Study. "May I ..?" he indicated Mycroft's desk.

"Of course," Mycroft waved him on. "Help yourself."

Pulling a pile of documents and several large folios from his briefcase, the young and handsome Simon arranged the papers to suit his plan, and looked at Mycroft.

Mycroft reached for Cate's hand and brought her over to sit beside him on the chesterfield, his face unreadable. Cate had the oddest sense of boding.

"How do you prefer to be called?" Simon looked at her with a slight smile. "Professor Adin? Mrs Holmes?"

Cate smiled back. "How about Cate?" she suggested, "Although if you wish to be formal, I'm experimenting with Catherine Adin-Holmes."

"Cate, then," his smile returned. "Your husband has asked me to speak to you about your Trust and inheritance," he began, picking up the first pile of documents.

Turning to Mycroft, Cate frowned. Trust and inheritance? What was going on?

Mycroft's expression was carefully neutral, and thus immediately suspect. Cate raised her eyebrows and stared at him accusingly. "We are full partners in this marriage," he said. "And these are some things you need to know about the arrangement," he added, squeezing her fingers. As she maintained her stare, Mycroft lifted his hand and tilted her face gently back towards the young solicitor.

"First," Melnick said, raising a thick sheaf of what looked like deeds. "_Property_. Apart from the London townhouse and this beautiful Surrey property," Simon looked around and smiled, "then there are, of course, the commercial office buildings at Canary Wharf, the new warehouses at Heathrow and the land in Cornwall."

Cate barely breathed. She had no idea she had married into wealth. Not really. It was a little shocking.

"Next," Simon continued, "there is the rather extensive collection of jewellery established by your husband's deceased mother, pictures of which may be seen in _this_…" he stepped over with the first of the folios. Cate flipped it open randomly to see a spectacularly detailed photograph of a pair of glorious emerald earrings. The book was filled with such photos; each one of magnificent gemstones and jewellery-maker's art.

The young solicitor coughed politely to catch her attention, apparently there was more. Cate cleared her throat and took a deep breath. _What next?_

"Then we come to the stock portfolio," Simon handed over a second, slimmer, binder, whose pages offered serried lines of corporate names, industry, product, market-value and current share-price. Cate's mind reeled.

"In addition, there are substantial investments in art, antiques and sundry items as well as a robust cash reserve and your own allowance."

"_Allowance_?" Cate choked, returning to stare at Mycroft. "I have an allowance? Since when do I have an allowance?"

"Since the day of your marriage to Mycroft Holmes," the young man smiled. "Although I see you've not availed yourself of the facility as of this moment," he added. "It is quite substantial," he said, handing over a third, even slimmer, binder. It showed only a few pages of bank account transactions, with, to Cate's eye, a large sum of money being deposited into the account on the first of each month. The balance, as Simon had suggested, was indeed substantial.

Feeling the need to clear her head, Cate stood and walked around to the window, looking out into the Italianate garden beyond. She took several deep breaths.

Turning, she looked from the smiling solicitor to the impenetrable gaze of the man she married. The man who had never mentioned anything about any of this before. Very well then, two could play at this game.

"Mr Melnick," she asked formally. "Would it create a conflict of interest for you to manage my financial affairs as well as those of my husband?" she asked.

Simon looked uncertain, glancing at Mycroft before replying. "I would not be able to represent both of you should there be a dispute," he said, but other than that, there is no legal impediment for me, or indeed, anyone in my company to represent you both if that is your wish."

"Good," Cate nodded. "Then please take this as a formal invitation to act on my behalf in all my financial dealings from this point on," he said, taking the folded sheet out from her pocket and passing it to the young man. "I desire these items to be assessed as part of the Holmes estate."

"Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of my colleagues?" he said, unfolding the sheet. "You don't know anything about me."

"The fact that Mycroft has chosen you to advise him, tells me all I need to know," Cate smiled. "In his dealings with people, he is rarely wrong." Looking over at Mycroft. "And he described you so very well," she added, innocently.

Mycroft's expression became even more inscrutable. His eyes narrowed slightly.

Simon was silent, reading down the clear lines of writing. He looked up, frowning, at Mycroft.

Cate folded her arms and also looked at Mycroft. "Full partners," she said quietly.

Mycroft stared from Cate to Simon and back to Cate: this was not how he had expected the meeting to go. She was up to something. He frowned.

"Are these figures accurate?" Simon went to Cate, pointing to some numbers.

"Checked them this morning," she said, "although my numeric skills are not the best, so I'd like someone who can actually count to go over them for me please."

"What _is_ going on?" Mycroft sounded mildly frustrated. "Cate?"

"What is going on, my love," Cate came over to sit beside him again and took his hand. "Is that I now have a new solicitor, and it's the same nice young man who advises you," she smiled. "Such a sensible idea."

"And with what is Mr Melnick to assist you?"

Cate leaned back against the thick cushions. "Simon? Would you enlighten my husband, please?"

Perching on the corner of Mycroft's desk, Melnick straightened out the sheet of paper, and took a breath.

"Well," he began. "There are apparently two apartments in Mayfair, both now leased to the Danish Embassy for Consular personnel; then there is a small development of fully-leased artisan dwellings in Barnsbury as well as adjacent commercial premises, also currently under full lease." Mycroft seemed taken aback.

Simon paused, pointing to a word. "Is that...?" he asked, Cate looked and nodded.

"Then there is the stock portfolio of …" he stopped and looked at Cate. "How on earth did you manage to access _these_, " he asked. "They haven't been on the market since …"

"_1987_," Cate offered. "I was fifteen and bought a small initial block of shares with the money I made during a holiday job, and then I kept taking every stock-option I could."

"But they're …"

"Yes," Cate grinned. "They are."

"For twenty-five _years_?" Simon shook his head, stunned.

"Although," Cate conceded, "in all fairness, they've only being doing spectacularly well for the last ten or so."

Simon cleared his throat and took another deep breath. He continued. "In addition to an _impressive_ blue-chip portfolio," he paused, reading, "there is a collection of provenanced first-editions and a _corpus_ of authenticated Lalique_ objet_, currently on exhibit at the British Museum." Simon grinned up at Cate, before pulling out a pen to scribble some rapid calculations on the back of the paper.

"If these figures are even close to correct," he paused again, looking at Cate and then Mycroft. "Then your wife, Mycroft, brings just over five million Sterling of her own investments into the family capital."

Mycroft stood. He looked disobliging. "No," he said.

Cate looked up at him. "You don't really have a say in this, darling."

He stared into calm brown eyes. "No," he repeated. "I don't want you to commit your own assets like this," he shook his head. "_No_."

Cate stood, staring back at the man to whom she had committed everything else. "Full partners," she reminded him, softly, "or nothing."

Rigid and authoritative, Mycroft looked at her detachedly. He folded his arms.

Bracing both hands on her hips, Cate glared straight back. Neither of them blinked.

A faint cough from the desk suggested that Simon was still an interested spectator.

Mycroft felt himself beginning to be out-manoeuvred. He searched Cate's resolute face only to find himself assailed with an abrupt and pulsating desire to pull her into his arms and kiss her until she was breathless: incoherent; to drag her down to the floor and pin her beneath him, kissing her until the only sounds she could make would be gasps of pleasure. His heart sprinted at the thought.

Looking across at Simon for support, Mycroft met an amused face above a pair of folded arms. "I think you may be trumped, Mycroft," Melnick shook his head, vastly entertained. It was rare to see Holmes the elder off-balance.

Waiting for Mycroft to see sense, Cate watched his eyes darken as he assessed her. His assured self-control made her stomach clench and her breathing shallow with longing. The urge to annihilate such composure with a touch was very nearly overwhelming.

"My love, you are hoist with your own petard," Cate moved towards him, sliding her arms around his middle and resting her chin on his chest. "Don't be cross, Mycroft" she repeated his words from earlier, tightening her grip.

"Very well," he muttered accommodatingly, curving his arm around the small of her back. "You win this one."

Turning to face his – and now Cate's – solicitor, "Double Cate's allowance, please Simon."

"Darling I have no need of an allowance in the first place," Cate protested. "I have my own income from the university."

Mycroft ignored her. "And create a separate annuity of," he paused, looking down at Cate's frowning face. "Let's say ten thousand, shall we?"

"Now you're just being silly," she muttered, poking him ungently in the side

"You're quite right my love," Mycroft looked pleased. "We'll make it twenty-five thousand."

As she was about to object again, he smiled cheerfully. "Want to try for fifty thousand?" he was being abominably sincere.

"Remind me why I married you," Cate gritted her teeth.

Melnick had gathered all his notes and papers back into the briefcase. "I shall be in touch with documentation and for signatures in the near future," he said, heading towards the door. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Catherine Adin-Holmes," he added, shaking her hand and smiling broadly at Mycroft. "I look forward to any future encounters."

Closing the main entrance door after Simon had walked out to his car, Cate rounded on Mycroft, only to be stopped by the peculiar expression on his face.

"You have no idea how entirely you take my breath away," he said, looking almost rueful, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

All the things she'd been about to say died instantly. He had such an effect on her. "Mycroft," she murmured, her hands flat against his chest. "Everything I have, that I am, is yours. _Everything_."

He closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "You undo me," he murmured. His eyes snapped open "It's witchcraft." He accused. "You really are a witch."

"_Professor_ Witch," Cate grinned, then squealed as he pulled her into his arms, growling imprecations in her ear.

Outside in his car, about to pull away, Simon Melnick heard a faint shriek of laughter, and he smiled and shook his head. _Newlyweds_.

###

Back in town, after dinner; Cate selected Pärt's _Silentium_, and poured them both a cognac.

"I have something I'd like to discuss," she said, as Mycroft accepted the glass.

Slightly surprised at Cate's formality, Mycroft looked at her and waited.

"The university has offered me a Deanship," she said. "Of Humanities."

Mycroft's first impulse was to be delighted for her, but something advised him to hold his counsel. "And is there a problem with that?" he asked.

Coming to sit close beside him, as if proximity enabled her to speak more easily, Cate picked up his hand, rubbing her fingertips gently over his knuckles and between his long bones. Her thumb stroked the lines of his palm.

"It would give me a bit more of a say in the actual running of the university itself, and I'd be able to better represent all the students who are currently excluded through academic protocols and the wretched fee-structures that we all have to have these days," she said. "It also means I'd have a louder voice in the direction the university takes in the future, especially in the Arts and Humanities sector." Cate brought Mycroft's hand to her lips.

"It's quite a salary-hike too, although," she said, "that's the least important thing."

"If it enables you to do more for the students, and if that's what you really want, then there seems to be little obstruction to you taking the role," he caressed the fingers encircling his hand. "Or is there more?"

"I wouldn't have time to teach," Cate's voice went flat. "And I'd have to travel overseas several times a year."

Ah. Mycroft saw the reason for her hesitation. Teaching was a core pleasure for her, and the reason Cate was even at the university in the first place. To have to give that up would be hard.

"Then decline the offer and stay as you are; do what you clearly love doing," he suggested.

Cate turned to him, her face troubled. "This is my dilemma," she said. "It's rare for a Dean's post to come up at all, and most of the other incumbents are men," she paused. "If I refuse this opportunity, then it will likely go to a male candidate, and I'm not helping improve the gender-ratio at the senior levels if that happens." Frowning. "It's all getting political."

"When was this offer made?" Mycroft was curious.

"The day before we went down to Deepdene." Cate sighed. "I wanted to mull over it as long as I could before saying anything."

Mycroft felt her occupational struggle was clearly not that distressing, as he had noticed no sign of preoccupation on her part. Or else she was becoming more adept at disguising her internal state. If so, he wasn't sure if that was entirely a good thing. He rather enjoyed Cate's emotional transparency.

"It seems you have a fairly clear choice between doing something you enjoy, or participating in a more executive role, which," Mycroft paused, "may end up being something else you can enjoy."

"It also requires me to travel," Cate looked into his eyes. "I'd be away several times a year at symposiums and for university business."

"For how long?"

"Not sure, but probably at least a week or so each time."

"Not unlike your current travel for conferences?"

"True," Cate nodded. She shook her head. "I just can't seem to make a clear choice."

Mycroft looked meditative. "There is of course," he offered diffidently, "an alternative you haven't considered."

"What alternative?"

Mycroft wrapped her hand in his own and pressed it against his face, inhaling her perfume and individual scent. He looked directly into her eyes.

"Stop working for the university completely," he said, a small smile on his lips. "Do whatever it is you really want to do – paint, write." Another smile. "Learn to play the violin, properly."

Sitting upright, Cate stared at him in something approaching shock. The notion of not actually working had never entered her sphere of consciousness. _Not_ work?

"But … that …" her words struggled and stopped.

"Or if that idea lacks a certain charm, then buy and manage, or start, a business," Mycroft suggested.

Cate was still bolt upright as a dozen new ideas careened through her thoughts. She stared at him, her eyes unfocused and distant.

"However," Mycroft spoke reflectively, nodding, "I quite like the thought of my wife being free to do as she pleases, rather than having to accede to the demands of the university," he drew a finger delicately down her face. "To anyone's demands other than mine, in fact," he murmured, a new light in his eyes.

Cate surfaced from her wanderings at his deliberate and obvious tone. "You are a very bad man, Mycroft Holmes," she laughed at his shameless expression.

He smiled. "So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to see if I can negotiate an Acting position of four months."

"An excellent compromise."

"And then I'm going to have another chat with you."

"You have my entire support in whatever you choose to do." Mycroft still had hold of Cate's fingers.

"Now tell me more about these demands of yours," Cate stroked his ear. "What might they involve?"

Mycroft was amused. "Availability," he said.

"Availability for what?" Cate's voice dropped to an absorbed whisper.

"Dinner," he said, carelessly. "Concerts; The Old Vic; Glyndebourne; Ascot in June; Scotland in August, Courchevel for the snow."

"Only that?" Cate raised her eyebrows and smiled.

"And for one other thing," his eyes focused on hers again.

"What one other thing?" Cate felt herself snared in deep blue reflections.

"For this." Mycroft's hand curved around the back of her head, pulling her unexpectedly close, her soft gasp making their kiss all the more delicious. Winding herself around him, Cate fell naturally into his arms. "For lots of this," he muttered, his fingers straying to the buttons of her silk shirt, his mouth finding the sweet places of her throat.

A distinct quiver trembled through Cate's entire frame eliciting her soft groan.

Instantly stirred, Mycroft knew he did not want to lose this. Not one bit of it.

###

"Agreed, then," the VC was not usually this accepting, but he saw little harm in delaying a decision by a few months – the wheels of academe turned ever slow. "You can start by taking over Jonathan's spot on the EARMA conference in Bilbao next month," he turned to Ruth Howells, "Which is when?" he asked.

"The third week, I believe," Ruth grinned at Cate and squeezed her arm. It was great to have another woman at Dean's level: at least now she wouldn't necessarily always be in the minority at the Executive meetings.

The VC nodded. "So," he summarised. "You'll take an acting role from now until November, and then we'll see about confirming the appointment?"

Cate shook his hand. "I look forward to tackling some new challenges," she smiled.

"We have the Alumni Black Tie Gala before you go to Spain," Ruth reminded her. "You can bring that new husband of yours along so we can all see for ourselves the reason for your goofy smiles."

Wondering if Mycroft could make such an event, Cate smiled happily. She agreed with Ruth's observation: goofy indeed.

###

"Are you quite sure you won't be bored?" Cate asked. "It's going to be all nerdy theoretical academics and terribly earnest doctoral candidates."

"It can't possibly be worse than a government bash," Mycroft muttered, putting a final flourish to his black tie, flicking an invisible mote of dust from his dinner jacket. "And unlike my dear brother," he said turning to watch Cate finish dressing, "I am aware of the need for certain social niceties."

"On your own head be it then," Cate walked over, turning her back. "Zip me up please, darling."

Her outfit was a fairly clinging black sheath dress with only the flimsiest of silk items beneath, and suddenly Mycroft was wondering if either of them needed to attend. The tantalising curves of her back draped smoothly in dark silk compelled his touch.

"Are you sure _you_ want to go?" he asked, running sensitive fingers from her neck to the base of her spine, instigating one of Cate's whole-body shivers.

"_Behave_," she breathed. "I have to go – it's part of my new job."

Pressing a kiss to her neck, Mycroft slowly fastened the dress closed. "No matter," he spoke against her skin. "There's always later."

Turning, Cate touched his face, she seemed a little breathless. "Perhaps I can leave early," she murmured, her eyes flickering across his features, his mouth.

Her closeness seemed to tempt him even closer, and Mycroft found himself leaning forward.

"Oh no you don't," Cate stepped back, a knowing look on her face. "If you start kissing me now, we won't leave this room."

Sighing his disappointment, Mycroft opened the jewel-case Cate had chosen for the evening. Diamond earrings.

"Only earrings?" he inquired. "Nothing more?"

Cate smiled. "More than these would be overkill," she said. "Look." Clipping each piece in place, she turned. "_Voilà_."

Mycroft had to admit she was right. The stark contrast between the deceptively plain dress, her smooth exposed skin and the glittering white sparkles at her ears and on her ring finger, were the only adornments she required. His chest tightened. She made him feel things he had thought he might never feel. There were no words for this. Cupping the side of her face he pressed a delicate kiss to her lips. "You amaze me constantly," he whispered. "I adore you."

Cate ached. No other description would fit the state Mycroft's words and caress created in her. If he touched her again she wouldn't be responsible for her actions. "Time we left," she breathed deep and picked up a silk wrap, arraying it around her shoulders.

The Jaguar was waiting, sweeping them away to the North Cloisters in Gower Street where the entire exterior of the Wilkins Building, a massive, white neo-classical enclave, had been taken over with festoons of glowing lights, clusters of enormous white Chinese lanterns, and seemingly, dozens of young people in waiters' livery. As per custom, guests were in black or white, and a string quartet played Bach in the portico as people stepped from their cars. The evening was fine; there were stars just beginning to glimmer in the darkening sky, and Cate felt all was at peace in her world.

Mycroft, though not entirely enchanted by the notion of mingling with several hundred strangers, nevertheless was accustomed to events of State and Government, which meant he had learned to smile, and suffer in relative silence. In any case, this evening was important for Cate.

Escorting her through the entrance, Mycroft handed Cate's wrap to a server, before taking her hand and strolling through swathes of fairy-lights and garlands of flowers. It was all a little magical.

"Here we go," Cate muttered as they approached a group of senior-looking people. "The VC and _entourage_," she whispered, a slight smile on her lips.

"Good evening, Charles," Cate held out her hand to a tall, heavily-built man in his late sixties. "I'd like you to meet my husband, Mycroft Holmes," she smiled unreservedly. "Mycroft, this is Charles Shelsher, our Vice-Chancellor."

The two men assessed one another: both used to authority, both completely at home in any corridor of power.

"Charles," Mycroft smiled briefly, shaking the man's hand. "Thought you were still in gaol?"

"Mycroft, you rogue," Shelsher grinned back. "So it was one of mine who finally broke you to the saddle, hmm?"

Cate stood transfixed. "You know each other?"

Mycroft turned, smiling. "I've known Charles since Oxford," he said, turning back to the VC. "I hear they've enclosed the Magdalen bridge? Hardly sporting."

"Don't get me started on the 'old' days," Shelsher shook his head. "You'll both join me later for supper?"

Raising his eyebrows at Cate, who nodded, still in shock. "Happy to," Mycroft said. "But first I hope to be introduced to a few of Cate's friends. Until later."

Lifting a couple of champagne flutes from a passing tray, Mycroft handed one to Cate who stood, bemused. "You never told me you knew my boss," she said.

Mycroft looked reflective. "I don't think you actually asked," he said ingenuously, sipping the fizz and watching passers-by.

Cate faked a scowl. "Would it be easier for me to assume you know everyone in London rather than the opposite?" she grumbled.

"Probably," Mycroft laughed shortly. "Certainly anyone in a position to cause trouble."

"Is Charles Shelsher a troublemaker?" she asked, interested.

"Do you really want to gossip about your VC?" Mycroft was amused.

"Damn right, I do," Cate nodded. "Begin when ready."

"Who's this?" he indicated a small group of people gesturing and waving their hands as if measuring the air.

"Earth Sciences," Cate laughed. "Most likely discussing the next big British earthquake," she smiled at her husband. "It's something of a grail-quest for the entire department."

"And what about these three?" Mycroft looked across at two men and a woman clearly arguing about something dear to them all.

"That's Rhonda McQuillan, Professor of Women's Studies," Cate nodded as the woman spotted her and waved. "And it looks like she's having a little disagreement with … _oh_." As the two men turned to see at whom Professor McQuillan was waving, Cate identified them as Dr Gene Romero of American Literature and … Dr David Swift of literary ancestor notoriety. Cate hadn't expected to see David here. She hadn't expected to see him alone anywhere, in fact. She wondered if this might be a little awkward.

Hearing the slight inflexion in her observation, Mycroft looked at the three people walking towards them with greater consideration. Something about at least one of them had surprised his wife, and he was mildly curious.

"_Cate_," Rhonda McQuillan swept her into a big hug. "Many congratulations, my dear," she boomed in her big Irish voice. "Just heard the news the other day: about bloody time they put a woman in the Cock-pit."

"Rhonda," Cate hugged her friend back. "Please meet my husband, Mycroft Holmes." Turning to Mycroft, Cate laughed. "This is one of my most insane friends, Ronnie McQuillan, who can drink any man under the table and then write a superbly insightful, not to mention grammatical, analysis of the event."

Smiling genially, Mycroft shook hands. "Always delighted to meet Cate's friends," he murmured, "the Cock-pit?"

"Something of an in-joke," Professor McQuillan observed. "Nearly all senior executive positions are still held by men, thus the Senior Council earned a certain nomenclature …" The _entendre_ was proudly singular.

Mycroft blinked and offered a faint smile. "And what would the name be if staffed predominantly by women?" he asked, engaged.

McQuillan laughed. "It would be called 'efficient'," she crowed.

Entertained, Mycroft smiled openly, then turned to greet the two men.

"And this is Gene Romero, a guru of American Lit," Cate smiled, "and David Swift, our resident expert in eighteenth-century British writings."

Romero, a dark, Italian-looking bear of a man, grinned at them both. "Heard about the wedding," he said. "Congratulations, Mr Holmes, on capturing the fair Cate," his grin became wider. "Whatever you are comes to you," he announced.

Mycroft smiled. "Emerson?"

Romero laughed. "You know the American poets, Mr Holmes?"

"Please, _Mycroft_," he nodded affably.

"We are all happy for Cate's good fortune: in both her private and public lives," David Swift looked Mycroft directly in the eyes and spoke quietly. Something in the man's tone set his senses on the edge of alert.

"On the contrary, Dr Swift," Mycroft's words were as smooth as warm honey. "It is I who had the greatest of good fortune when Cate agreed to be my wife."

Cate couldn't be positive, but she fancied there was a faint emphasis on the word '_my_'. Looking down at the floor, she sighed inwardly. She was never going to be able to keep anything from Mycroft.

"And now Cate is to be the new Dean of Humanities," Swift's voice was equally agreeable. Of a similar height to Mycroft, their eyes met without hindrance.

"Indeed," Mycroft smiled. "The best man won there, too," he raised his brows the merest fraction as he sipped champagne.

Swift's expression darkened. "If you'll excuse me," he muttered. "I have guests to meet," he spun on his heel, walking away with little grace.

Her eyes wide and with an ecstatic beam of approval all over her face, Ronnie McQuillan clapped Mycroft on the arm. "_Delectable_," she sniggered. "I can see why Cate fell for you." Turning to her literary colleague, "Come away, Yank, and let me teach you something about whisky."

Waiting until her friends were beyond earshot, Mycroft looked down at Cate's face. "So," he said. "How long has it been since you and Swift were lovers?"

Taking a slow breath, Cate sipped from her own glass. "David and I were finished more than three years ago," she said. "Although sometimes I'm not sure he ever accepted that fact."

"He'll bloody well accept it now," Mycroft sounded ominous. "He's envious of you."

"He was a candidate for Dean," Cate frowned. "I don't think he's happy I got the job."

"Man's a fool," Mycroft finished the fizz. "He let you go – that tells me a great deal," he paused. "If he gives you any problems in the future let me know, would you?"

Cate looked guarded. "And what?" she asked, "will you do if he does?

Mycroft smiled brightly. "We'll probably have a little chat."

Resolving never to mention _any_ problematic colleagues to Mycroft for _any_ reason short of an outbreak of war, Cate laced her fingers though his and pulled him towards the garden. "Come outside with me," she said. "It's too lovely an evening to be in here all the time."

Stepping out onto the marble-paved terrace, the fragrance of scented shrubs mingled with a whiff of smoke from the charcoal braziers on the main steps. Even in the heart of a city the size of London, with more than eight million people existing all around them, Mycroft felt a stillness and a calm he hadn't experienced for a long time. "Are you cold?" he asked, as Cate leaned against him.

"Not in the least," she murmured. "I'm perfect."

He smiled. "Yes," he agreed.

"I _meant_ …"

"I know what you meant," he wrapped an arm around her. "And I still agree." Mycroft's fingertips ghosted over the velvet of her skin as an enormous feeling of wellbeing settled in him. This was what people needed in their lives: moments like this. He felt on the edge of emotion. Sherlock would have scorned.

"I have my first overseas executive engagement next month," Cate slid an arm around his waist and hugged him tight. "_Bilbao_," she added.

"When is it?"

"The fifteenth."

###

The arsenal of firepower the group had amassed was impressive by anyone's standards. Piled randomly on the large steel bench, the eclectic melange of old and new armament shared an important commonality: they all worked and they could all destroy. Which was entirely the point. The pungent fragrance of gun-oil sat heavily in the room.

"Do we have an idea of numbers of people attending the conference? Alazne Bidarte lit yet another cigarette.

Nere Treto, waved the stink of smoke from her face. "Our source says in the region of a couple of hundred in the general conference, and around twenty or so in the senior colloquium."

"We need to ensure nothing fouls this up – we only have the one shot at doing this," Alazne picked a shred of tobacco from his lip. "Although I cannot imagine what problems a bunch of academics would give us," he laughed shortly. "Ancient greybeards and desiccated spinsters."

Treto was not so confident. "All clever people," she suggested. "Whatever their ages."

Alazne just shrugged. "We'll see," he said, dismissing the issue.

"As we expected, the conference is going to be at the Sondika Hotel, near the main airport." Nere looked contemplative. "There should be no trouble leaving the area once the First Minister has given us what we want – we need only include a fuelled plane in the list and we can be away within minutes."

Bidarte threw his half-smoked cigarette to the floor, stamping it dead as he walked over to the bench. Selecting a clean-looking SIG, he released the chamber mechanism and felt the weight. The gun had a nice, solid feel. He stared across the bench: there was more than enough for everyone. He smiled.

"Has the date been confirmed?" Bidarte lit another cigarette.

"Yes," Nere Treto, moving away from the fouled air. "The fifteenth."


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter Two**_

_Rousing the Beast – Evilest of Men – An Emergency Protocol – The Possibility of Fireworks –The Right People – CATE – A Soldier's Farewell – A Small Advantage – Local Resources._

#

#

Cate was organising her things for the meeting in Spain. Her opposite numbers from most of the major British and European universities would be there and, for the first time, she would be representing her own school at the most senior of levels. She experienced a brief wobble: she'd better not mess this up or her new job might very quickly become her _old_ job.

The weather-forecast advised Bilbao was likely to be on the warm side for the week or so she expected to be there, with highs in the low thirties. Fortunately, she had been assured the Sondika was a perfectly acceptable hotel, not terribly far from the airport, with indoor and outdoor pools, as well as being immediately adjacent to the coast. Apparently there was also a decent spa, as well as all the usual amenities. Expecting to be working some fairly long days, Cate thought she might as well make the most of the water should she find an opportunity. Picking up a couple of modest bikinis, she judged them against each other for relative inoffensiveness. Though she had no issue with skin, she felt her new role demanded a little more propriety.

Hearing the bedroom door open wider, she turned. "Which one of these is the most discreet?" she asked Mycroft, holding them in the air. "The blue and white, or the black one?"

"Neither," Mycroft paused, sliding his jacket over the arm of a chair. "They are both entirely too revealing." He sounded less than enthusiastic. "Perhaps you should stay indoors?" he suggested. "Or wear something a little more tent-like."

Giving him a seriously old fashioned look, Cate held up the black one. "I think this is the most sedate," she decided, laying it on the bed.

"I've never seen you in a bikini," Mycroft loosened his tie. "Perhaps if you were to put it on, I'd be able to offer a more informed opinion."

"You've seen me in a lot less than one of these," Cate grinned. "That never seemed to bother you."

Mycroft stopped undoing his cuffs and walked over to her. "What you don't realise, my love," he said, tweaking the costume off the bed, analysing it with a critical eye. "Is that it's not simply bare flesh that attracts the male of the species," he looked unimpressed by the pieces of fabric. "We appreciate a little mystery."

"I am not wearing _this_ for anyone's appreciation but my _own_," Cate grabbed the garment, laughing. "Frankly," she added, "apart from you, I don't care what any man thinks of me."

Mycroft smiled casually. "Then there's a problem," he announced, "because _I_ do."

Cate stopped laughing. "Seriously?" she said. "You think that me wearing a plain old bikini like this is going to start a riot?"

Mycroft stared at her as he continued folding back his cuffs.

"I don't believe you would think that," Cate was floored. Mycroft's continued silence was expressive. "Mycroft," she protested, "I am not some nubile, young, university thing. Nobody is even going to _notice_ me."

Staring into Cate's eyes, Mycroft realised she was being entirely genuine. She really had no interest in how she might appear to others. He kept forgetting that, in her own mind, anything other than her intellectual ability was less than significant. Once again, he had to smile. He knew he was over-dramatising the situation, but he couldn't seem to help himself: the urge to wrap her up in his arms and keep everything hurtful away felt particularly strong today. Her impending absence was clearly provoking.

"Ignore me," he murmured, kissing her cheek. "I merely exhibit the common jealously of a newly-married man. I am contrite."

Assessing his expression, Cate looked sceptical. "You are not in the least contrite," she observed. "Nor would you do anything of a common nature." She smiled, light-heartedly. "Do you really think I'd arouse the inner beast in this?" holding the costume in front of her, Cate looked into a mirror, shaking her head in disbelief.

"At least one," Mycroft felt his throat constrict as an image of a bikini-clad Cate, lying in the sun, filled his mind. Of its own accord, his arm wrapped around her, tugging her gently back against his chest. "Put it on," he whispered in her ear. "And we'll see what it does."

###

Terminal Three at Heathrow was busy, but then it was always busy. Cate wondered for the umpteenth time if she might have been better off going by train, but she seemed to have even less time in her new role than she had before. There were so many meetings, and then there was the Academic Board and the VC's Committee, as well as all the external meetings and reports … Glad to be away from work for a few days, Cate was almost tempted to 'forget' her laptop. Only three hours from her office, yet this trip would be the first real test of how she might cope should she take the position on a permanent basis. Mycroft had farewelled her properly at home.

"You could commute," he suggested, unwilling to let her out of his arms.

Cate smiled blithely. "Mycroft, it's three hours each way by air," she grinned. "Even I can work out that a six-hour daily commute makes relatively little sense."

"Videoconference? Teleconference? _V.R_.?"

Laughing, Cate held him close. "I shall be away for no more than five days," she promised. "I will contact you tonight when I have a clearer picture of my schedule, and we can Skype for as long as you want."

"Did you pack a tent?" he asked, breathing the smell of her skin.

"Several," Cate hugged him. "Now kiss me goodbye or I shall miss my flight."

Taking care to perform this most husbandly of duties to the best of his ability, Cate was flushed and breathless when he let her go. "_Evilest_ of men," she mumbled.

"_My love_," Mycroft's smile was gentle.

###

"The email was sent when?" He was already on the phone to Counter Terrorism Command, although Mycroft still preferred to think of them as _Special Branch_. Had they also received a copy? Though the mail had originally been addressed to The Queen's own private account, it had, naturally, been first vetted by a Private Secretary of the royal household. Her Majesty would never have seen this.

What worried Mycroft is that whoever sent this message, whoever was clever enough to have been able to locate and access this most secure of all royal accounts, would have known this fact. Therefore, the email was not written for the Queen: it had been written for someone like him. This immediately begged the question _why_? If a threat, then why alert the services? If a hoax, then equally foolish to divulge the originating server/ISP, as that was being tracked even now. If neither, then a distraction? If so, distraction for what? Everyone would be on alert and wary now of any potential problem, not matter how minor. The email itself made no sense. The delivery made no sense. Mycroft's trouble-spotting intuition was at high alert. _Something was wrong_.

Any threat made upon a royal these days was treated with the utmost seriousness. Too many previous incidents had passed relatively unnoticed, but no further risks could be taken: and this threat had been very specific, involving HRM, a car and at least one sniper. Copies of the threat had therefore already been sent to all the relevant M.I. offices, as well as the Met Police, the Home office, several security committees and Interpol.

Yet his instincts were going ballistic.

But where to start if there was nothing to see?

"Shut down all systems," he directed his Heads of Department. "I want everything offlined and validated." Ignoring the raised eyebrows and implied criticism, he was adamant. Something was wrong and he would go no further without checking everything. No matter how much it upset people. Immediately, an emergency shutdown protocol was enacted. Everything went very quiet.

"_Virus!_" The alarm spread throughout London's security forces as previously sheltered systems began to slam down or freeze. Somehow the hidden passenger aboard the message had managed to achieve the virtually impossible: to fool one ultra-secure system long enough to access one data stream. Given the low-level shared datachanels of many of the security services information storages, a virus only needed the merest foothold. Apparently one of the security committees servers had been less than fastidious in its subnet configuration.

"_Worm!_" The next disastrous revelation occurred as various stored data were mined before unbelieving eyes across Whitehall, Vauxhall Cross and Thames House, as file after file was attacked, corrupted and rendered useless.

"Everything stays down until we corral this parasite," Mycroft directed. "What have we lost?"

An intense young IT-type was staring unblinkingly at an on-screen flow of systems-architecture. "We appear to be in pretty good shape, Sir," she spoke distractedly, focussed almost exclusively on the screen before her. "Although all external data lines are down." Sitting, she tapped several keys in a predetermined sequence, calling up further screens. "All databases are in security override; surveillance is down, tracking is down; face-recognition is still working and we've lost comms."

Mycroft took a short breath. _Thank God. Nothing irretrievable_. "Are we secure?" he asked.

"For the moment, Sir," the young woman continued. "Although the program is still in active reconnaissance and may have been directed to expand its search parameters if the first strike failed." She looked up at Mycroft. "It's a clever little bugger," she nodded. "_Sir,_" she added as an afterthought.

"Clever indeed," Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Fortunately, we appear to have its measure for the moment," he paused, narrowing his eyes at the IT expert. "And you are?"

"_Ibarra_, Sir," she offered. "Elixane Ibarra, Information Systems officer, but most people call me Elly."

"Then, Ms Ibarra," Mycroft smiled tightly. "I'd very much like you to monitor our situation from up here if you are able to do so," he paused. "I have a feeling there may be further questions for you to answer."

"We have a solid CSR, Sir," Ibarra nodded, arranging four separate simultaneous screen views, as if her statement made perfect and obvious sense. "So we're able to isolate all comms, especially suspects, via a network gatekeeper. We can determine and manipulate all incoming and actives through the GUI which," Ibarra screwed up her face, thinking, "works on Sun as well as NT platforms … so we have flexibility in redundant systems and space for contingencies."

One of the screen quadrants flashed with a small beeping noise. Ibarra reacted swiftly.

"Try and port-scan _me_, you little sod," she muttered, hammering away at the keyboard.

Smiling slightly at her combative tone, "Do you require assistance, Ms Ibarra?"

"Not for the moment, Sir," she said. "There are 65,536 potential ways into any system via the ports, and this program is trying for them all," she paused, typing in a brief line of code. "I'm protecting our virtue with everything I can think of, but our hacker is no script-kiddie." Producing another string of commands, "I'm running a vulnerability analysis now and may be able to propose countermeasures in due course."

It was ironic, Mycroft thought, reflecting that if nothing else, at least his department's recruitment criteria appeared to be working. _Script-kiddie?_ Good grief.

Pulling out his Blackberry "_Anthea_," his voice was quiet. "Please contact my opposite numbers at MI5 and MI6 and Lestrade at the Met., and arrange for a secure conversation in a central, neutral location." Mycroft paused. "My office would seem appropriate."

Given the shambles their systems would be in, his colleagues across the City would scarcely be in a position to quibble. Despite the dire nature of the crisis, Mycroft enjoyed a fleeting but unambiguous moment of upmanship.

###

The taxies at the Bilbao airport were doing a roaring trade with their sudden influx of learnéd visitors. More than two hundred of who descended upon the place quite literally, within a few hours of each other.

Spanish being one of the most spoken Romance languages, Cate recalled learning it as either her fourth or fifth, but she couldn't remember. Sharing so many vocabularic and grammatical consistencies with the others, it was really more convenient to learn all five of the big ones simultaneously. The trick now was to keep on top of the differences.

Waiting outside in the afternoon sun, the heat was beginning to feel a little wearying. Rounding up several of her colleagues, Cate requisitioned the next cab and directed the driver to the Sondika, promising him riches galore, or at least enough for a round of beers, if he could get them all there inside of thirty minutes.

Managing it in twenty, the taxi screeched to a halt in the cooler shadow of the hotel. The fragrance of the nearby sea and the blessedly cooler breeze made everything much more pleasant. Though it was only mid-afternoon, Cate had a sudden urge for a cold, slightly alcoholic drink, and a walk along the beach. Reaching her room, she threw her briefcase on the bed, plugged in her laptop, and rummaged in her suitcase for the maligned swimsuit. Wrapping herself in an old beach-robe that really had seen better days, Cate stuck on an equally ancient pair of Raybans, grabbed some money and headed for the bar. It was hot; she was tired and thirsty, and work could happen tomorrow.

Striding through the still-incoming guests, Cate found the closest bar, and, now that she'd familiarised herself with the accent, greeted the barman in the local _patois_, asking him for advice of the nicest part of the nearest beach.

"Right behind you," he indicated with his head. "That's why the hotel was built here – plenty of good sand, nice and sheltered from the south winds, and good, deep water for the big boats."

Holding a tall glass filled mostly with ice and tonic, several slices of fresh lime and a very little gin, she walked down the beach sufficiently to be out of sight from the hotel. Wanting some peace, Cate found a large, sun-heated rock, and she sat back, sipping her chilled drink and wishing Mycroft could have been here – although she wasn't sure if he was actually a beach-type of person. An image of him walking across the sand in bare feet and a three-piece suit made her smile. This was their first separation since the wedding, and it was rather strange to be on her own again. Though the place was warm and pleasant, it felt like going on holiday by yourself: somewhat pointless and more than a little lonely if you had nobody with whom to share the experience.

Wanting to distract her thoughts from their current heading, Cate gazed out to sea. There were several very handsome yachts at anchor, but her eyes were drawn inevitably to the massive white cruiser that dominated the centre of the bay. At least eighty metres from bow to stern, the multi-decked boat – Cate saw the name _Elivara_ – looked sleek and luxurious. It would be interesting to see what it was like on board. She liked boats, and this one was a stunner. The only thing that looked a touch odd was the large number of dinghies and tenders that, like a large family of ducklings, seemed to be moored to it. Cate shrugged: maybe they were having a party and the small craft belonged to the visitors.

Stretching out her legs on the warmed sand, sipping the mild cocktail, Cate felt herself on the edge of a doze. It was so quiet here, and warm, and the sound of the waves on the sand …

"So, we go at midnight tonight?" the voice was male, local by the accent. A mature voice.

"Yes. Everyone will be asleep, so we'll need to by quiet to avoid waking them up – we don't want to be rude," another man, also local, but younger. He sounded as if he were making a joke.

"Will the boat be well-lit or only running-lights?" the first man asked.

"Hey – it's a big event," the other responded. "A celebration, so everything will be lit up like a party."

Ah. Cate realised they were probably from the yacht, talking about some revelry onboard tonight. A surprise party, by the sounds of things.

"Will it be unobtrusive?" the speaker's voice was low with anticipation.

"I imagine there will be a few loud bangs," the second replied, laughing.

"_Fireworks_," Cate thought. A shame, but she expected to be well asleep by then. The opening speech of the conference was at nine-thirty in the morning.

About to return reluctantly to the hotel, Cate stopped as the two conversationalists strolled past her rock.

Greeting her in the local dialect, Cate realised they assumed she lived in the area. Clearly, her unfashionable outfit marked her as less of a tourist and more of a local.

"Watch out the hotel doesn't chase you off their property," the older man warned, smiling.

"The hotel doesn't even know I know about this place," Cate smiled back, her accent virtually identical to their own. "But I have to be getting back to my work, so," she shrugged. "Have a good evening."

The two men laughed. "We're going to have a _spectacular_ evening," the older one laughed even louder. Clearly it was going to be quite a party. Cate smiled, shaking her head, as she turned back towards the hotel. Shame she wasn't invited.

###

The Home Secretary, Philip Evans, looked less than comfortable. "A bloody fiasco, the whole national system compromised," he refused tea and sat, gloomy and troubled.

The Director-General of MI5 and the current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service looked calmly at each other across the meeting-room table. _Politicians_. No-one serious about national security would have made any of the basic errors this man had made. Let him stew. With luck, there'd be an increase in funding for both of their organisations to compensate. With _real_ luck, he'd be 'reshuffled' in favour of someone who might actually know something about national security.

"Not _entirely_ accurate, Home Secretary," Mycroft sipped his tea delicately.

"Well indeed not," Evans leaned on the table, staring. "And exactly how is yours the only department not to have suffered at the … _hands_ of this epic fuck-up?"

Mycroft was silent. In the eyes of the nation, and especially the eyes of Parliament, the man was responsible for all security-related policies and counter-terrorism, yet was apparently unable to keep even his own technology safe. Not a good day to be a security analyst at the Home Office, he thought.

"Surely the important question, now, Minister," Mycroft included his MI counterparts in his glance, "is how to avoid a repeat of this event should similar conditions prevail."

Still looking for a scapegoat, the Home Secretary turned his aggravated gaze upon Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, sitting at the opposite end of the room.

"What are the police doing about all this?" he demanded. "Do you have _any_ information that's of use, or am I expected to meet the PM with nothing in my hands apart from my arse and a letter of resignation?"

"Sir," Lestrade sat forward. "We've traced the originating server and ISP, but," he made a face," the computer used to send it was," he studied a notebook, "a _zombie bot_," he said.

Evans turned an unhealthy shade of dull red. "A _what_?" he snapped.

"Zombie bot, Sir" Lestrade repeated. "It's the name given to any computer that's been hijacked by a hacker," he added

"And this means ..?"

"It means we're still looking, Sir," Lestrade took a breath. "However we've assembled a viable list of potential local suspects – anyone who we know to have this level of hacking skills and who's likely to be interested in creating a spot of havoc," he paused, flicking to another page of notes. "We've also managed to speak with out Interpol colleagues on the phone – we still can't use the internet as their systems were targeted as well as ours – to see if any names leap out on the European scene." Shaking his head in frustration, the Inspector continued. "The real problem though," he sighed. "Is that this incursion could have originated anywhere in the world – if the attacker…"

"_Terrorist_," Evans snarled.

"If the _terrorist_ had sufficient skill and understanding of global systems, he or she could have sent the virus from any computer at any location – China, even."

"You think the attack originated in _China_?" the Home Secretary turned puce.

"No Sir," Lestrade said. "It could have been from anywhere, and that's the real problem here – we simply do not have the facilities or personnel to adequately manage this type of threat."

"So," the Minister calmed slightly. "What do you need? More money? More people?"

Greg Lestrade looked around the table. "I can't speak for anyone else here, Sir," he said. "But I think we need to know how to _keep up._ I don't believe that throwing more money or increased personnel at this kind of problem will do any good at all unless the money is spent on the right kind of things, and we recruit the right kind of people."

Mycroft nodded agreement. Ministers tended to think in very small circles, and this increasingly common form of problem needed greater vision than would appear to be currently available in Westminster.

After the meeting ended, relatively fruitlessly to his eyes, Mycroft went in search of his most recent technology advisor. Elly Ibarra was in deep discussion with a twelve-year-old boy.

"Ms Ibarra?" Mycroft's tone asked the question.

"_Sir_," she turned the boy to face him, "this is Bobby."

"Bobby. _And_?"

"He's a programming genius."

"_Ah_," Mycroft understood. "Bobby works for this department?"

"Yes Sir," Ibarra nodded. "In the Mail room." _Older than twelve, then._

Inspecting the silent young man sitting anxiously before him, Mycroft felt his intuition stir for a second time in as many hours. There was a feel of his brother about this one. "Can you stop this from happening again?" he asked quietly.

Nodding mutely, Bobby raised his eyebrows and attempted a brief smile. "I think so," he said, his voice very soft.

Nodding her support, Ibarra agreed. "I think we might be able to put something together, Sir," she said. "We've already broken the situation down into the main problem-vectors, so any resolution would be constructed along a directive of identification, containment and exclusion." Bobby turned over a creased envelope, handing it to her. "This would mean establishing …" reading scribbles from the scrap in her hand, Elly began enumerating a list on her fingers. "One. _Countermeasures_; we need to have access to a range of immediate-response measures to stop any attack dead. Two: _Access authentication_; where we can work out who and what and where is safe, and what is suspicious. Three: _Threat_; in that we really need to be very clear on what we want our systems to recognise as an ongoing threat, and four, _Endpoint security_, which is where you need to tell us how severe you want any retaliation to be," she looked serious. "We'd be breaking the rules by using elliptical curve cryptography, but it might work."

"_Retaliation_?" Mycroft was interested. The idea that it might be possible to actually strike back at these people was deeply attractive.

"Yes, Sir," Ibarra shrugged. "CATE would offer several approximations of lethality," she grinned up at him.

"C.A.T.E.," Mycroft articulated the acronym. He raised his eyebrows. A joke? "Do you know my wife, Ms Ibarra?" he asked.

"I didn't even know you were married, Sir," she answered. _Not_ a joke. _An omen, then._

"Very well," Mycroft considered and decided. "Please have the Mail room advised of Bobby's transfer to IT, and if anyone questions your activities, refer them to me."

Mycroft had no clear picture of their plan, but he remembered Lestrade's sincere request for the 'right' people. Perhaps they were already here. Mycroft smiled.

_In the Mail room._

###

Dinner that evening had been a fairly raucous affair. What was it with academics at a conference? Some seemed to take it as a standing invitation to regress to student days. Still, better perhaps to have a friendly and collegial beginning to what might end up being a fairly fraught debate. Cate thought of the issues on her own agenda – some decisions, whichever way they went, would be contentious.

By the time she made it to her room for the night it was getting on for midnight and Cate was beginning to droop, but, as she wasn't at home, she knew Mycroft would still be in his office, working.

"Hello, _darling_." Even though she had seen him only that morning, it was still lovely to have his voice in her ears. She smiled, bringing the laptop over to the bed so she could sprawl while they talked.

"Hello, yourself," she grinned. "Had a good day?'

"Learned some new computer terms," he looked pensive. "I miss you."

"Only another four days to go," Cate wrinkled her nose. "And then you can give me a soldier's welcome home."

"Thought it was a soldier's _farewell_?"

Cate shrugged, a sly smile reaching her lips. "I'm not going to be pedantic about it."

There were some faint popping sounds outside the hotel.

"What's that noise?" Mycroft looked curious.

"I think there's a party on one of the yachts in the bay," Cate rubbed her eyes. "Fireworks, I expect."

Several of the popping noises came close together, nearer, too. Cate noticed there was also the sound of raised voices. For a moment, she thought it was shouting.

"Cate … those sounds," Mycroft was frowning. "Are you sure it's fireworks?"

About to go look out of the window, Cate heard some louder bangs much closer than before. "I'll just have a look," she said, "… hang on."

Sliding off the bed and opening her door, Cate looked out along the corridor. Nothing seemed to be amiss until several very loud bangs came from inside the hotel itself. She knew that sound. It wasn't a firework. Her heart began to thump as she ran back into her room, locking the door.

"What is it, Cate?" Mycroft's voice sounded tense. He could see her face in the laptop camera, and though by no means the clearest or most detailed of images, it was obvious she was worried.

"Mycroft, it's gunfire," she swallowed. "There are people firing guns in the hotel."

"Lock your door and put something in front of it," Mycroft had his Blackberry to his ear. Cate dragged a heavy wooden chair over to the door, wedging it beneath the handle. It would take some effort to shift from the outside.

"Darling, don't panic," he said. "I'm having the Bilbao _Ertzaintza_ contacted as we speak. There should be some form of politzia there within minutes."

Cate took a deep breath. "Mycroft, my love," she was calm. "I'm not panicking and I realise there's nothing I can do except wait for help." Picking up her laptop, she replaced it on the desk, angling it so that the embedded camera could observe the entrance. "Can you see the door from there?" she asked.

Mycroft clenched his fist. He saw what she was doing and he knew why.

"Don't be brave, Cate," he warned. "If you do anything foolish I shall be extremely unhappy."

Seeing her husband's scowl, Cate smiled lightly. "Being prepared is not being brave," she said, considering the chair wedged against the door. There was no other furniture apart from the desk and the bed. There was nothing else she could use to bar the entrance.

"_Cate_ …" she was distracted from Mycroft's voice by the noise of doors crashing open in the hotel corridor. Shouts and faint screams issued forth, although there were no more gunshots.

"Mycroft, listen," she said, turning to stare at his face on the screen. "I think they're coming for people on this floor. If they come for me, I shall leave this PC plugged in and online for you to use if you can. I don't know if it'll be any help, but it's all I can do at this stage." Cate scrambled to her feet, throwing a couple of things in the pockets of her slacks.

Making a decision, she pulled the chair from under the door-handle and opened the door. "I love you." Her words were quiet but clear. She waited.

From his office, Mycroft watched unbelievingly as Cate unlocked the door to stand calmly in the open doorway, although he saw immediately what she was doing. If she went along without fuss, they were less likely to inspect the room in detail and so the computer could remain unregarded for longer. She was insane. She was magnificent.

On the screen, he watched her flinch upright, stepping backwards into the room.

From behind the door, at eye-level, a man's hand appeared: the hand was clutching an ugly black pistol.

"_Ven conmigo ahora_!" The command was unmistakable whatever the language. _Come with me now_.

The last Mycroft saw of her were Cate's covertly waving fingers as she stepped from her room.

###

Walking ahead of the man with the gun, Cate found herself being herded into the main conference-room on the ground floor. It was already half-full with people dressed haphazardly in pyjamas and robes. There were only a few, like herself, still fully clothed. Cate was thankful she'd been up late: walking around in a nighty and little else would not have been her idea of comfortable, in this crowd. Looking around, she observed at least six men dressed in jeans and shirts, all holding handguns. They seemed overly casual; they way they stood, the way they looked. No rifles; no modern automatics. _Not soldiers, then_. Who were they, and what the hell was going on?

At the podium-end of the room, a tall man stood. He didn't have a gun that she could see. Looking closer at his face, Cate realised it was one of the men she'd heard in conversation on the beach that afternoon. She almost laughed. _Some party_.

"Quiet, everyone," the man's English was clear, though heavily accented. The large room gradually hushed.

"My name is Alazne Bidarte," he said, "and I shall be acting as your host for the next couple of days." Please …" he stopped as a general outcry rose around the gathered guests. "… Please do not be alarmed: this will all be over very shortly and then you will be able to return to your homes."

One of the older delegates to the conference stood up. "I demand to know what you intend to do with us and why you are treating guests to your country in such a disgraceful manner!"

"Calm yourself, old man," Bidarte smiled helpfully. "There will be a news broadcast very soon and the whole world will know about what we are doing here."

As Bidarte turned to speak with his compatriots, Cate heard something else in their words – a new thread of implication she hadn't realised was there before. This wasn't simply Spanish they were using; it was a very particular and regional dialect. _Basque_. These men were speaking Basque. And there was only one group who maintained use of this sub-language over the national version.

Cate frowned. The Spanish troubles were over, surely? A total cessation of all conflict had been in place since the previous year. Why then were these men with guns speaking Basque and holding people hostage in a region where there should have been no hostilities?

About to ask this very question aloud, Cate bit her tongue. It might be more prudent to keep that little fact quiet. Though a small advantage, secretly knowing their captors' every utterance might come in useful.

###

Though superficially calm, beneath the surface Mycroft's nerves were climbing over themselves with frustration. Of what was Cate in the middle? The Spanish police had been less than forthcoming; the _Nacional de Intelligencia_ fell obstinately silent the moment _Bilbao_ entered the conversation; the Spanish First Minister was not yet out of bed, and MI6 may as well have been reorganising their collective sock-drawer for all the help they had offered. It was farcical.

Very well: he would rely upon his own department's resources. Accessing an internal commline, he asked for the only person he thought might be able to actually do something practical. Assuming they were still here at this ungodly hour.

A knock sounded at his office door.

"Come in, Ms Ibarra," he swivelled his own laptop around on his desk for her to view: it still showed Cate's hotel room at the Sondika. There had been no further noise for over an hour. No gunshots, at least. Small mercies.

"Sir?" Elly Ibarra poked her head around the door. "I was just about to take Bobby home."

"Before you go, I'd value your assistance with this if you could." Mycroft indicated the laptop. Curious, Elly took a seat to better stare into the small screen.

"What is this?" she asked, fiddling with the screen contrast and brightness.

"It's my wife's room at a hotel in Bilbao," he said. "There seems to be some sort of coup taking place and she is in the thick of it all."

Taking his own seat, Mycroft steepled his fingers in thought. "She left the connection open in case it might be of use to us, but I lack the necessary skills to make this technology do everything I wish it to do," he paused, leaning forward, and intense expression on his features. "Can you help?"

Looking across his desk, Mycroft realised that the young woman's face had assumed a distant and somewhat troubled look.

"_Bilbao_?" she whispered. "Bilbao, _Spain_?"

"Yes, I know of only the one."

Ibarra sat up. "That's my hometown," she said. "I was born there. I know everything there is to know about the place … it's been perfectly quiet since …"

"_Since_?" Mycroft's tone made it clear he was in no mood for guessing games.

"Since ETA declared a ceasefire last year," she said. "Not everyone agreed, of course, but, _well_," she shrugged

_ETA_? Mycroft knew where all the regional leaders were currently located, and none of them were within a day's travel of Bilbao. He would have known if this had changed … unless communications were more damaged than previously thought.

"Did you know this was on record?" Ibarra asked, pointing.

"Can you replay from the beginning?" Mycroft wanted to hear Cate's voice as much as anything.

"I can make it do a lot more than that, Sir," Ibarra flexed her fingers and started work on the keyboard.


	3. Chapter 3

_**Chapter Three**_

_Hostages – To the Mountain – Running With the Bulls – Behaving Illegally – The Beauty of WiFi – Death of An Old Man – Spelled With a C – Making Trouble Properly – A Different Plan._

#

#

As dawn streaked the sky, Cate woke from an uneasy doze. Her neck ached from lying on the floor. The terrorists – what other name was there? – had made everyone stay in the main conference room, uncomfortable, though at least there were plenty of bathrooms.

Those who had managed to sleep were beginning to stir. With movement came voices and with those, came the questions. Then louder questions. Complaining began – the fear of last night had subsided, and now people were sore, tired and angry.

The first sign of real trouble came from a couple of senior-looking men stood and announced they were Professors of a major European college and wanted to speak with Bidarte. _Immediately_. Two terrorists currently standing guard looked uncertain. The academics demanded to see their boss again; their voices louder. The terrorists scowled and put their hands on their guns. Just as the moment began to get nasty, Bidarte appeared.

"Everybody sit down and shut up," he instructed, activating the massive conference screen at the far end of the room. "Watch this."

The scene appeared to be that of a news conference, with Bidarte and several others behind a long table: masked and each holding a weapon in their hands. Before them were arrayed a number of the main news agencies – Cate could see microphones from Al Jazeera; the BBC; the Spanish _Canal 24_, and CNN. Though there were others, the camera focused on Bidarte.

"Last year," he began, "the so-called elected government of the Spanish nation stage-managed a cease-fire agreement from certain representatives of the ETA organisation, but it was a false agreement with which the majority of our group did not consent," he paused. "We _still_ choose not to accept it and are re-stating our demands for the establishment of a Basque nation-state, with all the required trappings of government. We also call upon the representatives of all nations, both near and far, to support us in our struggle against a corporatised fascist administration, and recognise and acknowledge the authority of a Basque separatist government."

It was the standard dialectic meted out at these occasions, and Cate wondered why she wasn't buying it. Something was not ringing true. Mycroft was undoubtedly all over this by now, and, with luck, the disturbance would all be over soon. Right now, Cate wanted a cup of tea and something to eat, but nobody seemed to be making any move about feeding them. Perhaps the idea of asking for anything scared people. She stood and walked up to the front of the room.

"Signor Bidarte," she said. "Nobody in this room will have any affect on the actions of the Spanish government unless you plan on starving us to death. May I have permission to organise some food for us all?"

Taking in Cate's dishevelled appearance, Bidarte nodded. "It is good for a woman to know her place," he smiled. "Take some of these others with you and get some breakfast ready."

Gritting her teeth over the man's misogyny, Cate nodded and walked towards the kitchens. A few others, including a couple of the men stood to accompany her.

"Only women can go," Bidarte directed. "All the men are to sit down."

Once outside the door, Cate realised there were no guards with them. Heading to the kitchen, Cate looked at the three other female academics who had accompanied her and pointed to the kitchen door. "I'm going to have a look outside," she said quietly. "If the coast is clear then you can make a run for the hills which I bang a few pots around."

"You'll get into trouble if we escape," one of the women remarked.

Cate made a face. "I have a feeling I'm going to end up in trouble one way or another, so it may as well be for something productive. Wait here," she said, looking outside. There was nobody on guard. The back of the hotel was entirely deserted.

"_Go_!" Cate held the door open and pushed all three through. "Head for the road back there then go and find help – any help. Find the polizia if you can."

Watching the women run silently across the kitchen garden and into the rough pasture beyond, Cate returned to the kitchen and calmly started to make scrambled eggs and toast for several dozen people. Not quite the breakfast she'd had in mind, but she may as well do something with what small freedom remained to her. Cate had no illusions about what would happen next. Bidarte would likely be a little unhappy to have lost three hostages in one go.

One of Bidarte's men strolled in with a cigarette.

"You shouldn't smoke in a kitchen," Cate advised him, opening one of the massive fridges and finding a commercial tub of what looked like butter.

The man stopped, looked around and stared at Cate. "Where are the others?" he demanded. "The ones who came with you?"

Shrugging, Cate continued to butter toast. "I think they went to the bathroom."

"No, because they would have come past me if that were so," the man looked angry, opening the rear door and looking around the garden at the back of the property.

Striding over to Cate, he grabbed her hair and twisted. "Tell where they went!"

"Let her go," Bidarte commanded, walking into the kitchen. "If they've gone, they've gone. It is of little matter."

Rubbing her scalp, Cate glared at them both. "And you expect people to respect your political demands if you treat your hostages like this? You are madmen – it will never happen."

"You don't seem very worried about what might happen to you," Bidarte leaned against a steel bench folding his arms. "Aren't you afraid?"

"Believe it or not," Cate said, continuing to deal with the toast and uncaring whether they actually did actually believe her. "I have been in worse situations than this."

Bidarte looked at her appraisingly, his dark eyes taking in her face and body-language. Truly, the woman was not frightened. He almost smiled: she looked more irritated than anything else. These _académicas_, he thought ironically: better as soldiers than women. Although this one, Bidarte scanned Cate's body through her t-shirt and slacks, was not as dried-up and antique as were some of the others. And she had the courage to lie to a man with a gun in his hand. _This_ one was a little different.

"I'll send a few at a time through to eat," he said, leaving Cate. "If you try and escape, I shall have to shoot someone, so I suggest you stay here."

Realising the man might follow-through on the threat simply to make a point, Cate sighed. "If you intend keeping us all here for more than today," she said, "It would be civilised to allow us to shower and change."

Bidarte thought about it. "Maybe," he said. "Depends on how many are still around by tonight if our demands are not met."

Cate looked at him sharply.

"Oh, that's right," he smiled lazily. "You didn't know." His smile grew. "I've added a little deadline to our requirements," he said. "After midnight, people start to die."

###

Mycroft was fuming though outwardly composed. The Bilbao situation had apparently entered a dead-zone, with very little useful intelligence arriving from anywhere other than the BBC. His jaw tightened. There was no news of any activity inside the hotel, although neither had there had been reports of violence: this was a good sign, as it suggested control and strategy. Cate's laptop was still recording every sound and movement within its limited reach, but there'd been nothing even the most sensitive of listening equipment could detect since late last night.

Thinking about his wife made his muscles tense again. In all probability, she was fine, but Mycroft knew her ways: Cate was not the type to accept anything forced upon her. She'd take a bullet before giving in. She'd done it before.

The recent computer attack was still affecting all British domestic security-systems. The Home Office was maintaining a strategic, if unhelpful, silence; MI5's people were scrambling around like ants in the sun, while MI6 were playing silly buggers by refusing to acknowledge the existence of _any_ problems whatsoever.

Normally, the frustration of inactivity was of relatively little import: Mycroft knew that sometimes events needed to play through in their own timeline. But this was different. Cate was in there. He had never had to deal with a situation before where his personal feelings were an integral part of the scenario. It was harder than he expected. _Cate_.

"Anything?" he asked.

Elly Ibarra shook her head. "Nothing new, Sir," she rubbed her eyes tiredly. It had been thirty-six hours since she'd last slept and there was little more in her to give.

"There's a couch and a blanket in my office anteroom," Mycroft indicated with a nod. "I suggest you try and get some sleep. Someone will wake you if needed."

"Can't say no to an offer like that," she yawned. "Sir."

Giving her a brief nod, Mycroft returned to his thoughts and Bilbao. No way in, nothing coming out. Local assistance negligible, external agencies useless or incapacitated. It didn't supply much in the way of options. He sighed. There really was only one avenue left.

If the mountain would not come to Mohammed …

###

Sherlock was stultifyingly bored. This was nothing out of the way, although this current patch of boredom was actually something of a relief to John. It had been a very active several weeks and he welcomed a bit of downtime.

"_Bored_, bored, bored BORED, bored," Sherlock covered his face with his hands and groaned against the palms.

"Nothing from Lestrade?" John folded the newspaper open to the local news section.

"John, if the police had _anything_ for me right now I would take it simply to avoid having a liquefied brain trickle out my ears."

"There's a thing in here about the footballer being blackmailed ..?" John offered.

"It's his old coach trying to get him to return to a previous club," Sherlock muttered. "_Boring_."

"… and then there's this vicar who claims bodies have been taken from the local graveyard?"

"Local hospital medical students. _Dreary_."

"The HAC bank embezzlement ..?"

"Chief Auditor. _Banal_."

"Scout hut vandalised?"

"A vandalised scout hut?" Sherlock's voice held a momentary glimpse of hope.

"Nah, sorry," John read further. "Not vandalised, only graffitied."

Relapsing into a terminal coma of utter ennui, Sherlock considered taking up prayer. Perhaps if he prayed really really hard, someone might commit an interesting crime. Impersonating a police officer; highway robbery, driving without a brain … _anything_.

His mobile rang. It was on his desk, two feet away. "Get that, would you?"

Making a face, John stretched over. "It's Mycroft," he announced. "For you."

"Dear God," Sherlock groaned again. "Not enough that I am bored to the point of imminent spontaneous combustion, but now, _Mycroft_?"

Throwing the mobile onto the couch beside his flatmate, John resumed reading.

"Yes?" Sherlock snapped. "What?"

John could almost make out Mycroft's unruffled voice at the far end of the conversation.

"Where?" Sherlock swung his feet to the floor.

More listening.

"How many?" Sherlock stood.

John sighed, recognising the signs. He put the paper down, regretfully.

"How long?" Sherlock stepped into the centre of the living room, his voice assuming an edge of concentration.

"When?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows. He ended the call.

John looked resigned, folding his arms. "And where are we going this time?"

"Pack a bag, John," Sherlock grinned. "We're off to chase some Spanish bulls."

###

The car sent to collect them pulled into Farnborough Private Airport. A silent Sherlock fairly leaped from the rear door as it drew to a halt alongside a beautifully sleek Gulfstream G650. A thoroughbred jet: long, elegant, ready to spear its way into the air: the steps were down, waiting. Beside them, also waiting, stood an oddly tense Mycroft.

"Cate's in trouble?" Sherlock wasted no time with small-talk.

"Cate's in _trouble_?" John swung around at him accusingly. "You could've said."

Taking a breath and staring balefully at his younger brother, Mycroft turned to John and nodded briefly.

"Cate's attending a conference in Spain," he confirmed. "It's been hijacked by local thugs alleging some nebulous connection to ETA. British surveillance and security services are down due to a computer-virus attack, and local Spanish police and government authorities are non-co-operative. I want my wife back; soon and unharmed, and I need your help."

Taking it all in as if Mycroft had been announcing the itinerary for a trip to the seaside, John nodded. "Right then," he said, looking at the ultra-sleek plane behind them. "Let's get on with it."

Throwing their belongings behind a seat, John and Sherlock boarded the luxurious craft, to find a stranger in their midst.

"Ms Elixane Ibarra," Mycroft introduced, "who goes by the name of 'Elly'."

Turning to his brother, "Ms Ibarra will be accompanying us in several capacities, not the least of which is guide and advisor, given her intimate knowledge of our destination and an uncanny ability to finesse modern technology."

Indicating them individually, Mycroft introduced Sherlock. "My brother," he said, "who tends towards rudeness, manic idiosyncrasies and occasional brilliance, and," Mycroft added, "his most sensible and long-suffering associate, Dr John Watson."

Waving, "_Hello_," Ibarra nodded distractedly before returning to her laptop screen. "If you need anything from me," she muttered, scowling at a dialogue box, "just ask."

"Coffee would be good," Sherlock ensconced himself in a sinfully well-appointed chair, seeing if it swivelled. It did.

"_Sorry_ …" Focussing on the information scrolling before her eyes, Elly's words were faint and elongated as if she were speaking from far away. "Don't do coffee."

Sherlock looked peeved. John snorted. "Get your own damn coffee," he pointed to a well-loaded sideboard behind them. "Looks like self-service."

Mycroft smiled, touching an intercom button. "Ready to depart," he murmured. Almost immediately came the start of hushed engines. At the same moment, the cabin's rear door opened and an attractive cliché stepped through.

"May I offer anyone refreshment?" she asked, looking around at them all. "We have a wide range of beverages and food on board, both hot and cold, so please let me know what I may arrange for you, any time you want."

"Coffee for me," Sherlock was still playing with his seat which, by now, had transformed into a single bed long enough even for someone with his long legs.

John smiled engagingly. The steward was extremely pretty. He had a thing for pretty stewards. And blondes. He had a thing for pretty blondes. "Coffee for me too, please," he grinned. "No sugar."

Rolling his eyes, Mycroft asked for some Earl Grey. Elly was too engrossed in her computer screen to realise there had been a question.

Sitting up and leaning across the burnished wood table between them, Sherlock fixed his brother with a pointed stare. "So," he said. "Why do you need _our_ help?"

Mycroft sat back into his own opulent leather seat and steepled his fingers. "I cannot yet call upon official resources for this," he answered slowly.

"This is off the books?" Sherlock looked mildly impressed. "Are you behaving _illegally_, Mycroft?"

"_Illegal_ is such a pejorative term," the elder Holmes smiled blithely. "I prefer to think of this more as an unofficial recce."

"And where," John asked, sipping some really quite excellent Arabica, "are we unofficially recce-ing?"

"Bilbao," Mycroft frowned. "Cate's conference was being held at the Sondika hotel on the coast. There were approximately two hundred delegates, although as yet, I've been unable to confirm any real details." He tutted. "Such an irritant to have to leave London, but needs must," he sighed. "I do worry about her, you know," he added softly. "She has the most extraordinary ability to attract trouble."

"Indeed," Sherlock laughed quietly. "She married you."

Mycroft gave him an injured look.

"Do you know who's the leader of the terrorists?" John switched to soldier-mode. "Do you have any names? Faces?"

"Cate managed to leave her laptop open on a Wi-Fi Skype facility," Mycroft looked towards Ibarra. "Which, even as we speak, is being co-opted into our greater service."

Sitting back, running fingers through her dark hair, Elly Ibarra had a small smile on her face. "Cracked it," she announced.

"You have the bandwidth?" Mycroft was immediately alert.

"The global specification for WiFi frequency is 802.11 in the 2.4 gigahertz ISM band," Ibarra confirmed. "But what most people don't realise is that actual bandwidth extends for fifteen megahertz on either side of that central frequency." Twisting the laptop around for Mycroft to see, she pointed to a series of coloured bell-curves against a black background. "And that one there," she pointed to a scarlet peak. "Based on location and usage, is the precise hotspot at the Sondika – the one your wife's laptop is currently hooked into."

Sherlock frowned. "So if you have located the precise Wi-Fi frequency and have the necessary technology, power and range, you can piggyback it with any digitised communication you chose … _clever_."

Grinning openly, Elly tapped a few additional keys. "And here," she said, an undeniably smug edge to her words. "Our eagle has landed." She turned the laptop back to her audience.

Again, Ibarra had opted for a quadrant-view. Each quarter of the screen offered a different aspect of … the Sondika. Not only had she affected an uplink to the exact frequency-thread active in the hotel, but she'd also managed to link her computer data feed to security cameras throughout the building. "Fortunately the hotel's security is modern which means I can track both audio and visual," she said, as a soft background hum became evident.

"Is our presence noticeable?" Mycroft asked prudently. "We don't want to give the game away before we begin."

"That's the beauty of Wi-Fi," Elly nodded happily. "There's nothing to see or hear." "Plus," she added, "this mob have no intrusion detection devices, so to all intents and purposes, we're completely invisible." Looking directly at her boss, she adopted a serious expression. "What kind of trouble do you want me to cause?"

John raised his eyebrows, pleased. "I like the way you think, Ms Ibarra," he said.

"Oh, _Elly_, please," Ibarra said.

Sherlock stared at the divided screen. "Indeed, John, partners-in-crime hardly need to be formal."

"This is illegal?" John was curious.

Elly looked at him, amused. "What do you think?"

Mycroft stared thoughtfully at the screen. "Let's have a look around," he said.

###

Ambroos Piek, Senior Administration Manager from the University of Utretch strolled to the front of the conference room and waited for Bidarte to notice him. Piek had worked for the university for a great many years; he'd seen a lot of strange things and it took more than a few men with poor attitudes and even poorer manners to keep him quiet. In the last twenty-four hours, he'd been threatened at gunpoint, made to sleep on the floor; been starved, bullied and generally treated in a way he no longer appreciated at his age and seniority. He wanted to let someone know he was unhappy. So he waited for Bidarte.

Cate had tried to reason with the man. "Bidarte is obsessed," she muttered. "Please don't confront him in public – we don't know how he's likely to react."

Piek had shrugged. "The man is a maggot," he said. "He thinks he's a revolutionary, when in reality he's a brigand."

"Regardless," Cate continued to press for care. "He controls the guns and he's unpredictable and that makes him dangerous. Please don't provoke him."

"I'm too old to worry about a little _schijf_ like him." Ambroos stood and stretched his joints locked and painful from sitting so uncomfortably for so long.

Alazne Bidarte watched the man walk towards the front of the room.

"Yes?" he asked, unwilling to engage in conversation.

"I want to leave," Piek said. "And I'd argue that quite a few of these other people do too."

"Sit down, you old fool," Bidarte turned away. Piek wasn't terribly impressed.

"Just like the Fascists you came from," he spat. "Weaklings and _bandits_." He turned towards the door. "I'm leaving now."

Bidarte stood. The Dutchman had put him in a difficult spot. If he gave in, there'd be a general revolt, but he didn't want to use violence until it would have the greatest effect.

"Sit down or you'll be shot."

Piek kept on walking.

"I'm warning you," Bidarte unholstered his pistol. "Stop now."

The entire room had fallen silent. Cate and several others stood. This whole thing was futile and stupid.

Ambroos had nearly reached the main doors.

"_Stop_," Bidarte levelled his gun.

Piek's fingers wrapped around one of the handles.

The gun's report echoed shockingly round and around the massive room. Several people screamed, and everyone flinched; some individuals dropping to the floor in case other shots were to follow.

Ambroos Piek was not hit – the bullet had left a neat hole in the door slightly to the right of his hand. He stood motionless for a second before crumpling to the floor.

Racing over, Cate and one of Piek's university colleagues turned the fallen man onto his back. As an experienced first-aider, Cate sought a pulse. _Nothing_. Ripping open Piek's shirt, she began resuscitation protocols, pumping air into unresponsive lungs and thudding a rhythm into an unmoving heart. _Nothing_. Clasping both hands in a conjoined fist, Cate raised them high and brought them down with a bone-crunching thud. _Again_. And again. _Nothing_. Without the proper equipment she was unable to give the arrested heart a necessary shock. Ambroos Piek was gone. Cate sagged, the burning inside her undecided whether to become tears or fury. Folding his arms gently across his chest, she closed the dead man's eyes.

"Get something to cover him," she muttered. His colleague found a tablecloth.

Sitting back on her heels, Cate sought composure. She stood. Staring at the floor, she walked the length of the conference room, right up to the man still holding the gun. Lifting her head slowly, she looked the Spaniard directly in the eye, her expression one of unqualified revulsion.

Bidarte controlled an impulse to step back.

"He was an _old man_," Cate hissed. Raising her right arm, she struck the terrorist across the face so hard he staggered. "_An old man._"

Turning her back, she headed for the side exit. "I'm going to get a drink. If you want to stop me, don't aim for the door."

###

Aboard the Gulfstream, there was an extended silence.

In the previous minute, Ibarra had flicked her computer's screen-views to a new camera every few seconds. Realising she might as well direct the feed to the massive flat-screen TV which emerged from a cabin bulkhead at a prompt; they now had a decent-sized image to inspect. In greater comfort, and now able to see a far higher level of detail, the four scrutinised every movement and shadow. Mycroft was greatly relieved when Elly finally located the cameras in the main conference area. Positioned one at either of the narrower ends of the room, the two cameras offered a clear, though distant; view of pretty much everything in the room. Then Elly found the zoom control.

Searching initially for the hostiles, Mycroft didn't find her until he saw one of the men in the centre of the group stand up. Cate had been beside him, talking. Instantly assessing her condition, Mycroft's heart beat a rapid tattoo. She was unharmed. He drew a slow, deep breath. _Thank God_.

Attempting to identify the leader of the terrorists, they watched in growing disbelief as the little tragedy unfolded. When Cate rushed to the fallen man's side, Mycroft forced himself to remain impassive and observe without movement or comment, but he had an ominous sense of dread. In silence, they watched as Cate went through the motions of CPR, but Sherlock already knew it was a hopeless case. The way the man had simply dropped, spoke immediately of massive cardiac infarction, and, given his size, age and general physical condition, it was probably not his first. He would have been dead before he hit the floor. He realised that Cate probably knew this too.

They listened to her quiet footsteps on the stone floor as she walked back the entire length of the room to confront the man they now knew as Bidarte. They watched her strike him, and heard her words as clearly as if she were in the cabin with them. Mycroft closed his eyes. He could not watch her die. Not like this. _Cate_. _Not like this_.

At her next utterance, his stare returned to the screen. He watched his incredible, lunatic of a wife walk out of the room with nary a word spoken or a hand raised against her. He was struck with an excessive desire to either strangle her for being so bloody suicidal, or nominate her for a medal. _Two_ medals. His throat was tight with unspeakable words.

John coughed. "I rather like your wife, Mycroft," he said quietly.

Ibarra looked startled. "That woman is your wife?" she looked at her boss in open surprise.

He smiled taking a deep breath. "Her name is Cate," his eyebrows rose fractionally. "Spelled with a 'C'."

"_Cate_?" Elly's expression moved from surprise into slight shock. "_Oh my God_. No wonder you asked if I knew her …"

Sherlock heaved a sigh, swivelling in his new favourite chair. "And now what?"

Mycroft took a deep breath in an attempt to keep his own heart moving. "And now we have to decide what to do when we land," he said.

###

Cate had decided that this situation needed to end, and, if nobody else was going to do it, then she would. She had a plan. It was a good plan … as far as it went. She had the beginning of it, although the middle and the end were a little elusive at the moment.

Clutching a brandy balloon containing an excessive volume of Armagnac, Cate stomped up the stairs to her room. Slamming the door behind her, uncaring and indifferent to whatever happened now, she took a large swig from the glass, screwing up her face as the alcohol bit. Marching over to her laptop which, she observed, was still plugged in and still, apparently, online, Cate whacked the keyboard, not really bothered if anything happened or not. The screen brightened instantly.

"_Cate_?" Mycroft's voice sounded disbelieving. She stared down at the small image. It was him. A momentary wave of light-headedness took her.

"_Mycroft_?"

"Darling … are you all right?" his words were faint, but she could see his eyes. His eyes were real.

"Never better," she dropped to her knees in front of the desk. "But it'd be nice if the police could take these men away," she said, taking another gulp of the hard spirit. Coughing, Cate wiped a tear away.

"We're on our way," Mycroft's voice was urgent. "I'll be at the local airport within the hour and we'll work the situation out from there."

Cate was starting to feel the effects of the alcohol. It was really warm in here. "I'm going to have a shower and then I'm going to kick someone's arse," she muttered, swigging back the last of the brandy.

"Don't you DARE attempt anything infantile," Mycroft almost roared. "DO NOT be stupid, _Cate_!"

Tossing the now-empty glass onto the bed, Cate smiled knowingly at her husband. "Fear not, my love," she said. "I am not the childish type. _Plus_," she added. "I have a plan." Pressing a kiss to her fingers and her fingers to the screen, Cate pushed herself upright and began peeling off her clothes as she walked to the bathroom. She wasn't lying. Her idea wasn't remotely childlike.

###

Elly Ibarra chose discretion as her next move and switched the view away from Cate's laptop and back to the conference room. She somehow doubted her boss would want his wife stripping on-camera.

Mycroft was having a little difficulty restoring inner calm. Having seen Cate safe then learning she had something on her mind which might render that condition moot, was not making him feel particularly cordial towards his fellow man.

"How long before we land?" he demanded of the pilot on intercom.

"Assuming a clear flight-path and no ground-clearance issues, we should be touching down at Bilbao International on runway 10, in approximately seventeen minutes, Sir"

"Arrangements have been made to transport us to the hotel," Mycroft announced to the cabin in general. "Which means we should be there within forty minutes."

Still sprawling in his ideal seat, Sherlock looked thoughtful "You realise she's going to do something idiotic."

Mycroft exhaled sharply. "Of course I do," he snapped. "I just hope we arrive in time to stop further violence."

"I don't think you're giving Cate enough credit," John shook his head, thinking. "She's not going to endanger anyone's life."

Mycroft made a sour face. "Except her own, possibly," he muttered. "She has a maddening penchant for undervaluing herself."

"Then we must save the damsel before she is in distress." Calling up a map of the local area, Sherlock noted the proximity of the beach, the scrubland at the rear of the hotel and, most usefully, the large number of rooms with an external balcony.

Mycroft sighed. If there was no method of ensuring Cate kept herself out of trouble, then perhaps the most useful thing he could do was to help her make it properly.

###

Before leaving her room, a cleaner, though no happier, Cate returned to her laptop to see if Mycroft were still there. About to give up after a minute of nothing, the screen flickered into life once again. This time it was Sherlock's face in the camera.

"Your husband is in the bathroom," he advised. "But in the interim, and for your information, I would rather not have to endure another of his courtships," her brother-in-law advised "Therefore please do nothing that might require me to do so."

Smiling a little, Cate shrugged. "I'll do my best."

"What plan do you have in mind?"

"Bidarte said he was going to begin killing hostages after midnight," she said. "So we need to move fast, but I haven't worked out all the details yet," Cate offered slowly. "However, there are a great many exits to this building," she paused. "I just need something to get people to leave." Raking fingers through her drying hair, Cate looked quite rational. "And then find a way to kill the bad guys."

Returning to his chair, Mycroft's eyes narrowed and his mouth pursed as he considered his wife's statement. "Do you really want to see them dead?" he asked.

"Hello, darling," Cate smiled at his voice. "I want them stopped from hurting anyone else," she said. "And if that means they have to die then it seems a fair exchange."

"I don't think that will be necessary," he shook his head. "And even if it were the only solution, I'm not having you anywhere near such a situation." Mycroft's adamant expression appeared in her screen once more. "Besides," he added. "There's a much easier way."

Cate's shoulders lost some of their tension. "Then tell me how," she said.

Hearing the sheer relief in her voice, Mycroft smiled. "First," he said. "You need to get to the kitchen."

"I can do that," Cate nodded. "Then what?"

"And then, my darling," Mycroft sounded positively cheerful. "I want you to burn the hotel down."


	4. Chapter 4

_**Chapter **__**Four**_

_Contingencies__ – Maintaining Standards – Direct Action – Only a Little Snap – Other Avenues – Jefe – A Faint Trace of Burning – An Offended Heart – Not Worth Dying For – Girl-Talk - Options._

#

#

Alazne Bidarte was not the happiest of men. The plan had been so simple – it was not complicated enough for anything major to go wrong, and yet he now had a huge group of angry, unco-operative foreigners; a corpse and a woman who had managed to humiliate him in front of them all.

Nere Treto was the only one with a sensible idea. "Put the dead man in the freezer," she suggested. "Find the woman and lock her away somewhere she won't be any more trouble, and let the hostages go."

"_What_?!" Bidarte looked at her incredulously. "Are you _mad_? Keeping the hostages is the only thing between us and the Ertzaintza's Berettas."

"We need keep only a few," Nere was persuasive. "Why give yourself a headache? Keep the most senior people and let all the rest go," she said. "Reduces your problems and makes you look benevolent all at the same time."

Bidarte considered the idea. It really did make sense. "Very well," he nodded. "I agree. I'll make the announcement in the conference room."

Treto released her breath silently. Nobody had been supposed to die, not even accidently. While she supported Bidarte's goal with all her heart, there had been a serious deviation from plan and now someone had to make good. Releasing the majority of the hostages did indeed make sense, but the operation had lost its moral high ground, and nothing would get that back. She was prepared, however, for several contingencies, including, since the old man's death, a rather final one.

###

Cate slipped out through the door to her room.

Her conversation with Mycroft had swung from disbelief to understanding acceptance. No wonder he practically ran Britain. Cate still wondered, on occasion, why he'd fallen in love with her: there would have been any number of more appropriate companions he could have chosen. She was none of the things he could have had: she'd have to ask him one day.

First job: make it to the kitchen. Clutching a couple of pillows and the quilted bedspread from her room, she walked swiftly and silently along the hallway towards the rear stairs. When she left the conference room, almost everyone – certainly the terrorists – were either there or in the front of the building, watching the increasing gathering of news agencies and local politzia.

"_Stop_!" One of Bidarte's men saw her moving shadow.

Damn. Cate had hoped to reach her goal undetected.

"Where are you going, and what are you carrying?" the man had a hand to his pistol.

"Back to the conference room," Cate lied. "Taking these with me in case we are expected to sleep there again tonight." She hoped he'd buy it and not ask why she was walking in the wrong direction. Or check the contents of her pockets.

"Back that way," he indicated with his chin. "Get moving."

Annoyed that Plan A had hit a snag, Cate rapidly rethought it into a Plan B. She liked contingency plans, although she wasn't entirely sure how this one was going to work. Plan A had been safe: Plan B would be anything but.

###

Mycroft had changed. It was obvious to everyone who saw him. Sherlock handled the situation with his usual aplomb.

"Looks good on you, Mycroft," he nodded. "Although perhaps a shade _too_ Alec Guinness?"

John's eyebrows headed skywards, but he manfully refrained from comment. Elly hadn't shifted her eyes from the screen, where she was now scanning line after line of swiftly-moving program code.

Dusting down the lapel of the bone colour, linen-blend suit, Mycroft had just completed the knotting of a whimsical Ben Silver tie to the collar of the palest of blue linen shirts.

"Thank you, Sherlock," the elder Holmes smiled, adding a blue silk paisley pocket square to complete the ensemble. "Personal standards are so important, don't you agree?" he asked with a perfectly straight face.

"Are we going to dazzle them into surrendering?" John found after all that he just couldn't resist.

Lifting a black case onto one of the cabin tables, Mycroft looked pacific. Flicking the case open, he offered the contents to the Doctor.

"Actually," he said, mildly." I rather thought we might use these." Arrayed snugly in their own recessed foam beds were four unpretentious Glock 19s.

"I'd have preferred Webleys," he said. "But our Austrian friends make such very good guns these days."

Lifting one of the black beauties from its nest, John checked the safety then unclipped the magazine, confirming it was fully loaded. Cocking and un-cocking the gun, he balanced the weight across his palm. "It's not my Browning," he said, assessingly. "But it'll do." Looking at the case. "Four?"

"Thought you might like a spare," Mycroft took a pistol for himself and turned the case towards his brother. "I know how you like new toys," he said.

Selecting one of the remaining weapons, Sherlock hefted it before tucking it neatly into the back of his waistband. "Additional rounds?"

Lifting the foam bedding of the case, Mycroft revealed a second layer containing serried boxes of nine millimetre ammunition. "I believe this should be adequate for our purposes," he looked confident.

There was a dark-grey, M-class Mercedes waiting for them with dark-tinted windows, plush interior and air-conditioning. The weather was much hotter than anyone expected, so the latter amenity was welcomed. Mycroft looked fractionally smug in his airy attire. Their driver was of the local Politzia, and suddenly, Elly's parochial knowledge started to demonstrate its value.

Within a surprisingly short space of time, they reached the back of a motley assortment of news-vans, ambulances, police cars and general hangers-on. Navigating a path through all these obstacles, their driver eventually drew up in the shade of a large acacia.

Stepping out into the full heat of a Spanish summer, Mycroft unearthed a pair of Gucci sunglasses and asked Elly to locate one Superintendentea Gutxi Zubiri.

"You have an _Ertzaina_ waiting for you?" Elly's eyebrows lifted. "That's pretty amazing – they don't normally come out into the open in daylight hours." Impressed, she looked around before heading off in a likely direction.

"So," John scanned the area, taking in the Sondika's out-buildings and surrounds, the beach and the scrubby bush beyond. "Is there a plan?"

"Cate is in there with nearly two hundred other people," Mycroft stared hard at the hotel, as if he could remove the hostages by will alone. "I will ascertain the local plan and will consider its merits. If there are no a local ideas worthy of entertaining," he turned, "then we will formulate one that is."

Returning with a short, balding man, Ibarra announced Superintendent Zubiri. About to make the usual introductions, everything stopped when a shout echoed around the assembled cars and people. "They're coming out!"

His eyes fixed on the main entrance, Mycroft watched as a crowd of tired and dishevelled people staggered and half-ran from the building towards the awaiting emergency vehicles.

"Is everyone coming out?" he asked Ibarra.

"Can't say for sure, Sir," she answered. "About to find out."

Sherlock jumped onto the roof of the Mercedes. "Can't see her," he said, peering around.

Ibarra returned. "Bidarte has let everyone go except for the senior personnel who were here for an administrative council," she said. "Everyone still in there is either a Pro-VC, or a Dean or some university authority." Elly paused. "Your wife is one of them," she added, quietly.

Mycroft had long since reached the same conclusion. For a moment, he hoped the situation might have been resolving itself. It would seem not. The thought that Cate was now in a more serious danger was chilling. He realised his fist was clenched and forcibly relaxed it.

"Do your men intend entering the building?" He asked Zubiri with Elly as interpreter.

"Apparently they have not yet decided the most effective course of action, Sir." Ibarra said. "And from personal experience," she added, quietly, "I'll be surprised if they actually decide on anything." Elly looked at her boss. "They're terrified of sparking a massacre."

Mycroft had heard enough. "I'm unwilling to wait too much longer," he said. "I'll give Cate time to enact the agreed plan, but if nothing happens in the next fifteen minutes, I believe we need to take more direct action." He looked at his brother and at John. "Bidarte threatened to begin killing hostages after midnight," his expression became grave. "I cannot leave her in there."

Sherlock nodded. "So we're not intending to wait for the cavalry?"

John looked solemn. "We _are_ the cavalry, Sherlock."

###

Cate was annoyed. The idea to stage a mock inferno in the kitchen had gone awry the minute she'd been spotted. Now she was stuck in a much smaller group, where any absence could not help but be noticed. At least the majority were safe. As Cate looked around at her fellow prisoners, she realised Bidarte was watching her.

"Where have you been?" he asked, walking over to stand beside her.

"I needed to get away from the reek of your cowardice," Cate snapped. "I still need to."

Bidarte was amazed. Not enough that this woman shame him in front of the others before, she was doing it again. He got very angry, very quickly. Seizing her cruelly around the throat, he pulled her face close to his.

"Be careful who you call a coward," he snarled close to her ear. "It is not wise to insult anyone who has your life quite literally in their hands."

Grabbing at his fingers and struggling ineffectively, Cate decided that if there were ever a time she wanted judo skills, it was now. Apart from the pain, it was getting hard to breathe properly.

Closing his hand around the foreign bitch's windpipe, Alazne Bidarte had the momentary urge to complete the job. It would only take a little snap. He felt a touch on his shoulder. Nere Treto shook her head at him.

"This is not worth the trouble it will cause," she said in Basque, her fingers around his wrist. "Let the woman go, Alazne."

The spontaneous desire to kill faded a little. Jerking his fingers away with a muted curse, Bidarte let the woman go. If he had to start on the hostages later, he promised himself that she would be the first.

Breathing heavily from the choking, Cate rubbed her neck carefully. There would undoubtedly be bruises later, but no doubt she could find some explanation for them. Thank God Mycroft would not get to hear about these little dramas she seemed to attract. She'd never hear the end of it. Besides, she now knew that not everyone in Bidarte's little group was as obsessed as he was.

###

Staring at Elly's laptop screen in the back of the Mercedes, Mycroft felt his blood-pressure rise yet again as he watched Cate in another confrontation with Bidarte. Really, she seemed to have some sort of death-wish. He promised himself that there would be a long and comprehensive conversation with his wife when this was all over.

Observing the woman who much have been one of Bidarte's accomplices, Mycroft frowned. There was something unexpected.

"Sherlock, did you see ..?" he asked.

Indeed," his brother replied, watching the date feed in the front-seat screen of the vehicle. "This opens another avenue entirely."

Not understanding any of this, John raised his eyebrows.

"Body-language, John," Sherlock remarked. "Micro-expressions."

"_And_?" John still wasn't sure he understood.

"Bidarte's associate was very keen for Cate not to be hurt."

Shaking his head, "I'm sorry, I still don't see."

Looking impatient, Sherlock turned to his friend. "That woman," he pointed to the screen, "whoever she is, is not Bidarte's friend."

"Ah," John saw a sparkle of light. "So the other avenue you mentioned …"

"_Yes_," Mycroft nodded. "Divide and conquer … if we have time."

"I have the floor plans to the Sondika," Elly said. "I'm putting them on-screen."

Looking at the ground-floor exits, they arrived quickly at consensus.

"So do we each take an exit or do we try and rope the locals in to help out?" John would actually prefer to do this without having to rely on anyone he didn't personally trust, but a few spare bodies never hurt.

Mycroft ended a call on his Blackberry. "We wait a moment," he said.

Less than two minutes later, Zubiri and a couple of underlings stomped over, clearly unhappy with current events. Elly rolled her eyes and interpreted.

"Apparently there has been word from on-high," she said, listening. "And the word is that they are to do whatever you ask regardless of how, er … _extreme_, the request might appear."

"Bet he didn't say 'extreme' just then, did he?" John grinned.

Elly chose the path of righteousness and said nothing.

Mycroft was less diplomatic. "Extreme, be damned," his words were blunt. "I want men outside every entrance of the hotel," he directed. "They are not to fire unless I give the word to do so," he added, turning to Ibarra. "Will they guarantee a non-firing stance?"

"I'll ensure that they do, _Jefe_," she nodded happily, launching into rapid and idiomatic Basque.

"I also want a loudhailer," Mycroft added, turning to his employee. "_Jefe_?"

Ibarra shrugged. "If the sombrero fits …"

Giving the young woman what Cate would call one of his 'looks', Mycroft sighed internally. Apparently his IS Officer was another woman who was clever all the time, not just in the office. His lips twitched with the merest shadow of a smile.

###

Daylight was vanishing as Cate walked over to the little pile of bedding she brought into the room with her. Sitting on the floor by the wall, she put her head in her hands. Hopefully, everyone would think she was upset and leave her alone. Peripherally watching for bad guys, Cate removed the bottle of nail-varnish remover from her pocket. Unscrewing the cap, she lay down on the soft pile as if trying for sleep, and, insinuating the open bottle into the heart of the fabric, allowed it to soak into the material, hoping that the pungent whiff of ketones didn't give the game away. In need of an accelerant, this was all she had. It would have been less dangerous to do this in the kitchen, where large sinks of stainless steel and tiles and non-flammable materials were in play. But needs must. And after all, she reasoned; she was only following her husband's suggestion.

The last of the daylight faded into orange-grey streaks of sunset. The Sondika's external lights flickered on automatically joining a barrage of emergency lights, police lights, camera- and TV-mounted lights, all of which made the evening sky glow like Las Vegas.

Bidarte had been walking around the darkened conference-room, peering out of blinded windows at an increasing rate for the last thirty minutes. He looked like a man with a deadline, and Cate realised this would be a very bad time to give him anything extra to worry about. Therefore she kept her face completely unsmiling when she dug in her other pocket and pulled out the small lighter she had snaffled from the kitchen. Time to cause some havoc.

Sliding her hand deep into the piled bedding, Cate flicked the lighter on and immediately withdrew as she sensed instant heat. Standing as quickly as she could without drawing attention, Cate stepped over to the nearest knot of people, and started talking. Almost immediately, she was able to detect a faint trace of burning in the air. Trying to distract everyone for as long as possible, Cate pointed towards one of the windows and gasped. "They're coming in!" stabbing at the air with her fingers, ensuring that everyone was looking away from the far wall.

There was a quiet _whumph_, as the bedding burst into flame and the orange glare of fire lit the shadowy room with a rosy glow. It was now so dark inside, that the small conflagration looked much worse than it actually was, although the flames were already running right up to the top of the wall and, Cate observed, looked like they were about to start crossing the ceiling. Fortunately, the floor was stone. Too late now to worry if she'd done the wrong thing, Cate yelled "_Fire_!", and waited to see what Bidarte and his goons might do about it.

Screams and shouting seemed to be the first things, although Cate realised they were all in a large room with several exits leading out to the beach-side of the property or the side exits leading through the bar and onto the beach that way. The last thing they were was trapped. She wondered how long it would take everyone to work that out.

Bidarte only had six men that she had counted plus the woman Treto. If that was his entire cohort, then surely it should be easy to evade them in a dark, smoke-filled room?

Walking carefully around the room away from the fire, which increasingly looked as if it were about to get really nasty, Cate found herself beside one of the large glass-door exits.

With everyone's attention on the fire, she slid behind the floor-length louvers and swiftly out through the door. She was out!

Running in the dark across the car-park, Cate collided with a solid body and came to a rapid halt. About to try and struggle away, she heard a familiar voice.

"Stop fighting and stay _still_," John's was speaking in English, although his tone was universal.

"_John_?" she gasped. "Thank God."

"Cate?" John pushed her away; turning her just enough to see her features in the glow of the lights.

Flinging her arms around her friend's neck, Cate hugged him tight. This meant Mycroft was close. "Where is he?" she demanded. "Is he here?"

"Over there," John smiled and shook his head, still finding it difficult to correlate the notion of the unapproachable _magister_ who controlled Britain with the image of a loving husband. Taking Cate's hand, John pulled her deeper into shadow and away from possible discovery.

Mycroft was staring at the Sondika, suddenly aware of the faint aroma of smoke. Perhaps Cate had managed to fulfil her part of the plan after all. If she had been able to follow the plan exactly, then the kitchens would be on fire, or at least, be giving a very close approximation of being on fire. The sprinklers would be coming on soon.

Ibarra appeared with a loudhailer. "Finally found one that works," she said breathlessly.

"Perfect timing," Mycroft nodded briefly. "Now this is what I want you to do," he said, explaining in detail the effect he desired. Elly quickly got the idea.

"Someone to speak to you, Mycroft," John's voice came from behind him. Expecting Zubiri, Mycroft turned to see a distracted Cate staring at him. His reaction was instinctive and immediate.

Striding across to his wife, Mycroft's wrapped her in arms of steel; pulling her abruptly against his chest, he rested his face in her hair and held her motionless.

"You keep doing this to me," he muttered. "My heart cannot handle your penchant for dangerous living," he said, pressing her closer to the offended organ.

_Darling_," Cate's voice caught as emotion overwhelmed her. All she wanted to do was stay in his arms. Safe, and away from mad Spaniards. "I have to go back, Mycroft," she struggled with the words. "I can't be the only one to get out like this."

"No." The word would have drilled granite. "You are not returning to that murderer," he was adamant. "I won't have it."

Cate looked up at the man she loved beyond understanding. "I must, Mycroft," she whispered. "I really don't have a choice if I'm to make sense of all this later."

"Let's _all_ go, shall we?" Sherlock held his Glock pointed downwards and slightly away from his body. John looked equally ready. "I haven't come all this way to be denied a little fun."

Realising he could not enforce the issue, Mycroft held Cate by her shoulders.

"Very well," he said, severely. "On the condition that you stay behind me at all times and that you do precisely and exactly what I tell you to do."

Cate nodded. "This way," she said, moving back the way she and John had just come.

Grabbing her arm, Mycroft jerked her to a standstill. "Behind_ me_," he growled, "or you stay _right_ _here_."

Giving him a moderate glare, Cate nodded, realising, for the first time, that her husband had a gun in his hand. She'd never seen him hold a gun before: was it terrifying or thrilling? She wasn't sure, but something hard lodged in her solar plexus and stayed there.

Nodding compliance, Cate took his free hand and followed meekly behind as they moved swiftly around the rear of the hotel. By now, there was a steady stream of smoke emerging from several windows, and an orange glare flickered and jumped inside the building.

"I thought the plan was to start the fire in the kitchen?" John wondered.

"Couldn't get to the kitchens, so I improvised," Cate muttered. "Didn't think it would make much of a fire, though."

Pointing out the door she had come though, Cate waited patiently as John and Sherlock tested it for access and proximity to bad people.

"Either they've all gone somewhere else," John half-whispered, "or they're all dead."

Giving him a cross look, Cate demurred. "They might have moved out of the room and into another part of the hotel," she said, "but there are only the main meeting rooms down her … and the kitchens."

Becoming bored with the discussion, Sherlock took it upon himself to initiate action. Slipping in through the door, his long frame vanished into the flickering darkness of the smoke-filled room. Entering directly behind him, John held a handkerchief over his face.

Mycroft waited. "Darling Cate," he said, "if I asked you to stay here, would you stay?"

Cate just looked at him.

"As I thought," he sighed. "Very well." Taking her hand, Mycroft opened the door and pulled his wife in behind him.

The room was not yet an inferno, but the heat and the smoke were certainly intense.

"Stay here, by the door," Mycroft instructed. "If it gets too hot or smoky, then get outside."

Nodding again, Cate stayed back against the wall as her husband followed Sherlock and John across the now-empty conference room and out into the passageway beyond.

Almost immediately, Cate heard the voice of the young woman outside on the megaphone. She advised everyone inside to make their way to the various exits as the hotel was about to be destroyed by fire. Interestingly, she was speaking in Basque, Cate realised, so the advice wasn't for the hostages.

Even though she could duck out the door any time she wanted, Cate stayed put. The heat wasn't too bad over here, and the smoke seemed to pool near the ceiling, not at floor-level. Or at least, not yet. Besides, she wasn't going anywhere until Mycroft came back.

Watching the roaring flames lick at the edges of the stone floor, Cate was momentarily distracted. A small breeze at the back of her neck was insufficient to alert her before a rough hand grabbed her hair and twisted her down to her knees. Cate gave a small shriek: not so much from the pain as from the unexpected fright.

"Got you now, _academica_ _bitch_," Bidarte hissed as he forced Cate down by his feet. "Everything is wrecked, all my plans, because of the things you have done … all the things I was going to do … and now everything is wasted and _someone is going to pay_." Bidarte yelled. Holding Cate still, he brought his pistol around and rested it at her temple. "And it may as well be _you_," he laughed.

"Let her go, Bidarte," Mycroft was unemotional as he stepped back into the room. "Let her go and we can all leave this place with our lives."

His eyes crazed in the red firelight, Bidarte yanked Cate up against him, using her body as a shield. "Try anything and this _perra_ dies," his laughter was a little wild.

"Let her go, Bidarte," Mycroft's words were low and persuasive as he stepped a little closer. "She's not worth dying for, surely?"

Jabbing Cate with the barrel of his pistol, the Basque terrorist forced her head up as the muzzle lodged beneath her jaw: one twitch of the trigger and Cate would be dead.

"Not nice to threaten a lady," Sherlock's deep voice came from behind Bidarte, but instead of letting Cate go, the Basque dragged her closer as he backed up towards the fire.

"Maybe I won't shoot her then," he smiled nastily, his pistol still jammed painfully against Cate's neck. "Maybe I'll just take her for a little walk into the fire and then we'll see what happens."

"No, I don't think so," John's voice added to Sherlock's as he stood at the ready to one side of Mycroft. "Drop the gun, Bidarte."

Yanking Cate even closer against him, Bidarte caught her around the waist and took another step towards the fire that was now billowing across the floor, searching for fuel.

"One more step from any of you and we shall both be beyond care," he smiled. In a corner of his mind, Mycroft realised the man was quite insane.

Lifting his gun, Sherlock made ready to shoot. John was already in position, as Mycroft aimed his own Glock at Bidarte's head.

The gunshot echoed loudly even against the background roar of the flames. Bidarte fell, dragging Cate down with him.

All eyes snapped across to the far door. Nere Treto stood, her own gun levelled at the fallen terrorist. The shot had taken Bidarte in the back of his shoulder: debilitating but not yet lethal.

"Let the woman go," Treto instructed. "Or you die."

"_Nere_?" Bidarte still held his gun. "You … a _traitor_?" his voice was strained with shock and fury.

"Put the gun down, Alazne," Treto indicated with her own Beretta. "Now."

"_Traitor_?" Bidarte's voice acquired a frenzied edge. The gun was still in his hand.

"The _gun_, Alazne." His hand began to rise. Began to aim.

The second gunshot was equally as shocking; the lethal round taking Bidarte through the throat. Stunned, the eyes of all turned to Mycroft who lowered his Glock only once he was sure the Basque could be no more trouble. Striding forward, he helped Cate from the floor. "Are you able to walk?" he asked urgently, as the fire billowed around them. Nodding, Cate coughed violently.

"Everyone out, _now_," Mycroft dragged Cate out as the sprinklers finally kicked in.

In the relative cool of the hotel courtyard, Sherlock observed the woman Treto. _Ah_.

"Politzia?" he asked, though it was more of a confirmation than a question.

Nodding, Nere Treto holstered her weapon. "I infiltrated Bidarte's little group seven months ago," she said. "But it was mostly rhetoric until this week." Smiling sadly, she raked her hair back from her face. "The crazy thing is I actually agreed with some of the politics he stood for, just not his methods."

Elly Ibarra joined them. "Superintentea Zubiri needs to talk to someone about this," she indicated towards the man who, even now, was stomping towards them.

Sherlock grabbed John's arm. "Not us," he said. "I doubt the Spanish authorities would be overly ecstatic about foreigners with unlicensed guns shooting Basque nationals in the middle of an international conference with the world watching," he noted. "See you back at the plane."

###

While Mycroft set about defusing the Spanish government's generalised ire, Cate sat in the Mercedes with Elly Ibarra, trying to get her much abused laptop to boot up.

"I have no idea why it won't work," Cate sounded annoyed. "It's only about five years old."

Elly sat back and stared at her boss's wife in amazement. "_Only_ five years old?" she repeated, "Okay. But what have you been doing to it in those five years?"

Thinking about the times she had accidently knocked it off her desk; dropped it in-flight; spilled coffee on it … And now the fire and then the water. Cate made a face.

"I take your point," she agreed. "So it looks like I need a new computer." Turning to Ibarra. "What do you suggest?

Delighted to be able to discuss technology for a change, Elly started to list all the possibilities. She loved girl-talk.

###

The return flight to Farnsborough took off uneventfully. The Spanish government was appeased; the Basque police closed their case; the Sondika was pretty much salvageable; Treto would get a commendation; the hostages were being repatriated and Cate was safe and Bidarte would soon be forgotten. Yet Mycroft was not yet ready to relax. Sitting back in one of the luxurious leather chairs, he steepled his fingers and watched Cate as she and Elly Ibarra talked technology and education.

"And this is how we were able to piggyback on the Sondika's security cameras," Elly demonstrated. "Although we'll soon be out of range to do it clearly."

Staring at the big flat screen, Cate watched with ghastly fascination as Elly switched from one camera to another, the hotel system still mostly up and running despite the flames and water.

"So …" Cate was unsure how to phrase the question. "I expect you didn't manage to see all that much?"

"Oh no," Elly's voice was bright with success. "We got to see pretty well everything," she paused, remembering. "That poor old man with the heart-attack; the way you smacked the terrorist and then had the fight with him later, lighting the fire. Everything, really."

_Oh_ _hell_. Her throat suddenly dry, Cate rubbed the bruises that were surely beginning to make themselves evident. "Visual only, yes?" she asked, hoping.

"Nope," the younger woman smiled happily. "Managed to find the audio boost, too, and the zoom," she said. "Clear as a bell, with the gain up."

Turning slowly to her husband, Cate gave a brief nod of comprehension. "You didn't tell me you had the entire place under surveillance," she said.

Looking at her over his fingertips, Mycroft was quiet. "I thought you realised the problems of making assumptions about things I know," he replied, casually.

"You saw everything?"

Mycroft looked around the cabin. Sherlock was dozing flat-out, on his new most favourite seating configuration; John was deep into a newspaper, and Elly was once again, engrossed in her computer.

"Everything."

"You should smile when you say that," Cate attempted one herself.

"I do not feel in the least like smiling," He was as good as his word.

"Then why are you looking like that?" resting her elbows on the table between them, Cate lowered her chin into her hands. As far as she could. Her neck was a little tender.

"I am considering my options," Mycroft looked at her assessingly.

"And they are?" Cate tilted her head, puzzled.

"I'm still considering," he said, closing his eyes and laying back against the chair. "We can discuss them at home. Privately."

Realising this was not the best place to start a disagreement, although Mycroft sounded as if he wanted one, Cate shrugged. Stepping over to an indecently comfortable sofa which pulled out into a large bed, she dropped inelegantly and was asleep within moments. Locating a warm cover, Mycroft draped it gently over her. His stomach churned at her bruises.

###

The Jaguar dropped them off at the townhouse just after midnight. Though she had slept a little on the plane home, Cate still felt terribly tired. Stepping inside her home, she turned, about to tell Mycroft that she was going to take a shower, when she found herself swept fiercely into his arms.

Holding the back of her head, Mycroft's kiss was unforgiving as he seized her with an angry passion. Instantly inflamed, Cate responded to the violence of the kiss with her own hunger, bruises and tiredness burned away in the heat of desire. Backed up against the stair balustrades, Cate moaned her need. Breathing heavily, Mycroft stopped, holding her away from him with difficulty.

"_What_ ..?" she floundered, desperate for more contact.

"We have to talk," he said, taking her hand and pulling Cate towards the drawing room. Almost pushing her into one of the sofas, Mycroft stood and glowered.

"I have three thoughts about these recent events, and you need to know what they are," he declared, a quiet look of fury growing on his face.

Still dazed from the intensity of his kiss, Cate sat, wide-eyed, her pulse racing.

"The first of which is that I am _outraged _about the entirely cavalier way in which you dispose of your safety," he barked. "Did you even _consider_ how I might feel, watching you throw away the one thing in this world I can never replace!?"

Cate's heart thumped. She had never seen him this angry before. Certainly not with her. "I'm sorry I worried you," she offered. "I didn't think you'd ever find out what happened."

"Well I _did_ bloody well find out," he threw at her. "I was bloody well watching it on television in glorious _technicolour_!" shaking his head in mute fury. "Although I'm _damn_ sure you wouldn't have said anything."

Bowing her head, Cate waited for him to get everything off his chest.

"It's not good enough, _Cate_," he stormed, "You risk what is not only yours to risk."

Striding over, Mycroft lifted her chin, visibly wincing himself as the bruising made her flinch. "And then I realised all I wanted to do was wrap you in my arms and never let you out of them again," he whispered, his actions following his words. Winding his arms around her, he held her tightly, stroking her back, murmuring against her skin.

"You are so brave and so stupidly reckless," he whispered. "I thought you were going to die in there."

Cate felt her own heart aching at his words. She had no wish to cause him pain. "I'm sorry, darling," she choked out, her throat reluctant to allow any words at all. "It simply happened, there was no premeditation."

"There was no thought at all, my love," Mycroft looked at her. Cate was shocked to see him almost in tears. The man who came to rescue her; the man who had killed Bidarte; the man who was professing his unconditional love with tears in his eyes. She wanted to howl.

Wrapping her arms around his head, Cate held him close as their breathing quieted.

"And the really maddening thing," Mycroft was philosophical, "is that you'd do exactly the same thing again tomorrow if the situation arose, wouldn't you?"

Lifting her head to look into his eyes, Cate tried a tiny smile. "I can't help who I am." She held his gaze. "Can you tell me you would do anything differently if it happened again?"

Lifting his eyebrows, he shook his head a little ruefully before returning to rest on her shoulder. "We both stink of smoke," he muttered eventually.

You said there were three things," Cate reminded him, preferring to have all the cards on the table. "What was the third thing?"

She felt him smile against her. "The third thing I wondered," he said, his mouth adopting an immoral curve as he stared into her eyes. "Was how many times it might be possible to make you scream my name before morning."

Her breath halting at his intent, Cate stood up. "Shower first," she said.

Taking her hand, Mycroft's expression was villainous. "As good a place as any."


	5. Chapter 5

_**Chapter Five**_

_Dented –Tell Me How You Feel – Prepared to Pine – Old Stories – Curves Are Dangerous – Drive Carefully, Darling – One Small Act – The Nearest Thing to Heaven – Elinor and Jocelyn – 1950s Seduction._

#

#

Feeling subdued after the conference-debacle, the university had told her to take a few days off – at least until the bruises faded. In the mirror, Cate saw their point – it looked as though an angry snake was wrapped around her throat. She was also coming to terms with the fact that Mycroft had been so upset: she'd never really had to worry about other people's feelings before. His anger had been bruising too.

"I think I'll go down to Deepdene for a few days," she said at breakfast. "The weather is lovely and I might paint."

Mycroft looked at his wife appraisingly. Cate had not been shining at her usual luminescence for a couple of days now. It wasn't the university – they had been most accommodating – which was just as well or he'd have a quiet word with Shelsher. Nobody at the university had any idea of the role Cate had played in the Bilbao affair. It wasn't the aftermath of Spain, he was fairly sure of that. She had shared no other problems with him, nor was she ill. That didn't leave much to examine for an explanation. Evaluating his own recent behaviour, the only thing that might have dampened her normally buoyant mood was … _ah_. Making a face at his teacup, Mycroft reflected that among the things he and Sherlock shared was a filthy temper once it was ignited. Normally, he would never dream of lashing out, but after the fire and the shooting and the very real fear that Cate was in mortal danger, he may have overshot the mark. Only one way to find out.

"Are you angry with me?" he asked, sipping tea.

Cate's surprise was genuine. "Not at all," she said with a faint smile.

"But there's something, isn't there?" Mycroft held her eyes. "You're unhappy with me."

Cate realised, once again, the futility of trying to conceal anything from him.

"I'm feeling a little … dented," she admitted. "I stopped wearing my cloak of invincibility when I fell in love with you."

Mycroft inhaled slowly. _Ah, God, Cate_. "Can I help repair the damage?"

"I don't know," she answered honestly. "I've never …" she stopped, shaking her head. "I think a couple of days relaxing in the sun would be nice."

"By yourself?"

"I think un-denting happens better that way," Cate raised her eyebrows at him.

Walking around the table, Mycroft took her hands and brought her up to him. "You command my heart," he said quietly. "And if I have upset you to a lasting discomfort, I am truly sorry."

Sliding her arms around his waist, Cate held herself close, pulling his gaze to hers. That one man could be so many different things was an unceasing amazement.

She looked at him analytically. "You _do_ know I have absolutely no defence against you?" she stated quite seriously, assessing his understanding. "Literally. None at all. No filters, no barriers, no boundaries?"

With an immediate comprehension, Mycroft also experienced a rush of illicit pleasure: his thoughts quickening at the knowledge. He didn't want Cate to be able to keep him out. That she revealed herself so hopelessly vulnerable gave him an incredible feeling of privilege. It was probably wrong to exult in her lack of resistance, but he did it anyway. In her world, she was the authoritative specialist: untouchable, _bulletproof_. To be a part of his reality, Cate had knowingly discarded her shields, and she had done it for him. She was unprotected _against him_. The sudden thought of her entirely defenceless in his arms was irresistible: his jaw clenched from the intensity of it, from the turbulent desire instantly within him.

"_Christ_, woman," he croaked, his pulse uneven, his voice rough. "Do you have any idea what you do to me?"

"Not often," Cate was frank. "You rarely tell me, and unfortunately," she said, with a wistful smile, "I lack your facility for telepathy."

Mycroft blinked slowly as his heart quietened. She was correct to a certain point. He had been alone for so long that he barely recognised the things she might want to know. Considering the price Cate had been willing to pay for their relationship, then he could at least try to give her this.

"And you tell me this now, because?"

"Because, my love," Cate's fingertips caressed his skin. "When you're angry, there's no need to shout," she pressed her face to his chest. "There's really not even a need to whisper," she said, returning her eyes to his. "You only have to look, and I will know."

Mycroft gazed at her, his chest tight with swift emotion. He wasn't so sure about any lack of telepathy: she was right on the mark.

Cate smiled a real smile at him. "Tell me how you feel."

"How I feel?" Mycroft was puzzled.

Cate nodded, calm. "Tell me how you're feeling right now."

"I feel …" he stopped.

She looked amused.

"I _feel_ …" he looked into her eyes and stopped again. "I feel you deserve someone better than me." He paused, considering. "Actually, no," he corrected. "I don't feel that at all." He took her hands again. "I'll be damned if you deserve anyone better than me."

Cate grinned and shook her head. "_And_?"

Mycroft took a deep breath. She wasn't going to let him off easily. "And that I am particularly inept at identifying my own feelings."

Raised eyebrows and a really big smile. "_And_?"

"And that I am only beginning to realise how rare and costly a gift you have given me."

Finally closing her eyes, Cate twined her arms around his neck and removed all space between them. "I love you so much," her words barely audible.

Wrapping himself around his wife, Mycroft held her very close. This was worth the price – any price – whatever it was. He felt it.

###

Deepdene really was beautiful in this season. The Surrey countryside was at its best in high summer: blue skies, green fields turning golden with the corn; songbirds and squirrels, larks and swans: Constable could have painted it. After some negotiation, an arrangement was arrived at wherein Cate would go down to Deepdene in the morning and Mycroft would follow in the evening of the following day, thus giving her some time to herself, but not so much that he would feel abandoned. Cate looked sideways at his choice of words.

"I pine," he had said, assuming a vague hint of the tragic.

"You do not pine," Cate laughed, zipping some stretched white canvasses in a large cloth bag. "You are not the pining sort, and even if you were," she said, "you're too busy to pine."

"And you're taking Mrs Compton with you," he accused. "What am I to do?"

You'll be on your own for less than thirty-six hours, Mycroft," Cate grinned, callous to his plight. "If you can keep Britain safe from international threat, scandalous political intrigue and government blunder, I am confident in your ability to survive without either of us until tomorrow evening."

"What are your plans?" he asked, examining her rather esoteric and somewhat fossilised box of paints and pencils.

Consulting her inner wish-list, Cate paused. "I'm going to go for a nice long walk," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him. "And I'm taking my paints with me in case the mood strikes, and I'm going to explore the attics," she walked over and pretended to straighten his tie. "And then Mrs Compton and I are going to go wild in the kitchen to fill the freezer, as well as make the most incredible dinner for a special dinner guest," she stood on tip-toe to press her lips to his.

"Do I know this special guest?" he smiled.

"It's a man I'm rather fond of."

"And this man," Mycroft's smile was inquiring, "whoever he is. Will he be staying the night?"

"If I can persuade him, I hope to have him in my bed."

"You are irresistibly persuasive," Mycroft murmured, his fingers sliding through her dark hair, he kissed his wife tenderly, taking pleasure in her soft mouth and fragrant skin.

Stepping back, he gave her a lopsided smile. "I feel …content," he reflected, experimenting with her earlier request. "And fortunate."

"Are you still going to pine?" Cate muffled softly into his jacket.

"I am leaving the option on the table," he said, "although I believe I may spend the evening at my club."

"A wise choice," Cate nodded. "I suspect the Diogenes would consider pining an outlandish aberration." She brushed down his lapel, "You'll send the car back for us?"

"Yes, darling," Mycroft nodded. "The driver has instructions to take you directly down to Westhumble then return to my office," he paused. "You do drive, don't you?"

Looking puzzled, Cate nodded slowly. "I have a licence, though I haven't driven for a while," she said. "Who can park in London?"

With a slight smile on his face, Mycroft walked to the door, returning only to kiss Cate again briefly, but with intent. "Until tomorrow, my love." Even his voice was smiling.

###

The drive down to Surrey was smooth and fairly swift. Mrs Compton chatted away about the fancy social affairs she'd taken charge of in her younger years: balls; parties, Christmases. Cate was happy to let her ramble on, as her own thoughts drifted.

"I knew their mother, you know," she said.

"Whose mother?"

"Mycroft's mother. Sherlock's, too, of course."

"You knew Elinor Holmes?"

"Such a beauty, she was," Mrs Compton sighed. "Terribly sad when her heart gave out like that. She was no age, you know, not even sixty when she passed."

Fascinated, Cate wanted her to continue. Mycroft had barely mentioned his mother, except to acknowledge her death.

"So she died of a heart-attack?"

"Oh yes, dear," Mrs Compton nodded wisely. "Took her in a second, it did. Not even time to get an ambulance to the house."

"And where did this happen?" Cate asked. "Where was she living at the time?"

"Oh, down at Westhumble."

"Mycroft's mother died at Deepdene?"

"Yes, dear," Mrs Compton turned and looked at her. "Didn't he tell you?" Tutting, she shook her head. "Those boys," she said.

"Where was she when ..?"

"When it happened? In the drawing room, getting a book from the shelves."

Cate sat back in the yielding leather and wondered why Mycroft had never told her. Or perhaps it was because she'd never actually asked him: he had this knack of avoiding things he'd prefer not to discuss.

"There's a lovely painting of her in the long gallery," Mrs Compton said. "Have you seen it?"

"Mycroft showed me a few of them," Cate thought. "But I don't recall one of his mother."

"It's right next to Sir Jocelyn," the old housekeeper said. "He were a handsome man too," she added. "Mr Mycroft has his look, but Sherlock is more his mother."

"Their father was knighted?" Cate was stunned at all this new information. Mycroft hadn't mentioned any of this.

"Goodness, yes," Mrs Compton nodded, remembering. "Services to the Crown, I think it was. Same sort of thing as Mycroft does now."

Unsure how much the woman knew about Mycroft's work, Cate thought it best not to question Mrs Compton on that score.

"And how did Sir Jocelyn die?" Cate was madly curious.

"Ah, another sad affair, were that," Mrs Compton made a face at the memory. "Shooting accident in the far woods. A few years before Her Ladyship."

Cate was horrified. To lose both parents so relatively soon in life must have been difficult, especially on Sherlock. Working the numbers and dates out slowly, Cate realised he would have been twenty-one when his mother died, and only a teenager when his father vanished from the world. She sat back into the seat, with a clearer understanding of the brothers' relationship: no wonder Sherlock sometimes resented Mycroft's parental attitude.

"And do you know the area well?" she asked the older woman.

Mrs Compton nodded. "Used to live there while Madam was still alive," she said. "Know the village and roundabouts quite well, although" she made a face of frustration. "They keeps changing things around, you know," she added. "Roads and things."

"Then you can tell me all the good places for a long walk," Cate smiled. "And you can show me those paintings."

###

Mycroft made it a habit each morning to pay a brief visit to his new IS trouble-shooters – Elly Ibarra and the young Bobby. Between them, they had already assembled a raft of ideas to counteract and provide a riposte to any future attack. CATE was starting to look very good indeed. He walked into the darkened room of an interdepartmental briefing.

"And so," Elly indicated the screen behind her, "thus far we have a comprehensive range of identifiers linking to an inverse advanced evasion technique based on elliptical curve cryptography already being used by the Finns."

"Elliptical curves are unpredictable," a voice sounded from the back of the shadows. "And yet you expect this entire department to commit to something so dangerous?"

"Curves are only dangerous if you use the wrong ones," Ibarra looked confident. "And I know which ones are safe, and besides," she added. "Our current architecture would not have withstood the hack, so we really have little choice but to be more experimental." Using the automatic slide advance, Elly took everyone to a screen filled with formulae. "To provide additional safeguards, CATE will incorporate Rijndael algorithms, using triple discreet invertible transformations, which should make modification to counter any attack developed in the future much simpler than with past algorithm designs."

Mycroft had actually met the Belgian designers of the Rijndael algorithm when the U.S. Government consulted him on the establishment of advanced encryption standards, some of which his department already used. He knew CATE was on firm ground and lacked only the appropriate strategies for implementation and user-testing.

There were no more comments. Breathing a quiet sigh of relief, Elly Ibarra flicked the lights back on. "Any questions?" she asked the room.

"When would it be feasible to have this system emplaced?" Mycroft wanted increased security as soon as humanly possible.

"Given the modular nature of the design," Elly spoke decisively, "we have the option of installing section-by-section, or in any configuration that suits us."

"And which do you and Bobby prefer?" Mycroft could almost hear eyebrows rising all around him. Young Bobby was less than _sin qua non_: an untried novice at best; a dangerous liability otherwise. Yet Mycroft felt there was something about the boy worthy of risk.

"We've agreed that we'd like to have both systems running in tandem for a while before switching to CATE for a trial run," Elly smiled, she was nervous now. "We assume there will be bugs – there always are – but a brief trial would enable us to spot errors in real-time."

"Do it. Keep me informed, please." Mycroft nodded once and left the briefing.

###

Settling into the Edwardian country house, Cate felt herself relaxing. She had been sucked up into so many things in the last few months that she sometimes forgot to examine her own state of mind. It was good to have time for a little introspection once in a while. Standing in the streaming sunlight of the mullioned dining-room windows, she wondered what she wanted to do first.

The Housekeeper bustled up bearing a white envelope. "Mycroft asked me to give this to you," she said. "Almost forgot."

"Thank you, Mrs Compton," Cate felt weight in the package.

"No need to stand on formality, my dear, unless you'd prefer," the older woman smiled. "The boys used to call me Nanny Nora, but I expect we can do away with the 'nanny' bit now."

"Nora?" Cate smiled. "What did Mycroft say when he gave you this?" Cate waggled the envelope.

"Only that I was to see you got it first thing and to say you were not to think of driving in London."

Feeling the contents of the package between her fingers, Cate felt another smile creep across her face. She knew exactly what she was going to do first.

Heading to the back of the house, Cate exited through the big kitchen door and immediately turned left towards the closest outbuildings. Some large stone sheds and stables, plus a more recent conversion of several free-standing buildings into workshops and, as she swung open one of the doors, a spacious garage. Cate knew it was a garage because that was where cars lived, and there was a rather spectacular car living in this one.

A brand new Bentley off-roader sat in isolated splendour with a large red bow tied to the handle on the driver's door. There was a plain white card.

"Drive carefully, Darling. MH."

Ripping open the envelope, Cate pulled out the key she could feel through the paper. Pipping the door, the scent of fresh new leather and polished accessories wafted out to greet her. It was almost too pretty to sit in, with pale seating and dark burled wood. A rare beauty.

Stepping up into the hallowed interior, Cate wriggled with pleasure. She'd never driven anything as opulent as this before. She was just getting her bearings when her Galaxy rang.

"Do you like it?" Mycroft was in high spirits.

"It's gorgeous," she said, a mad grin on her face. "How did you know I was out here?"

"Eyes everywhere," Cate heard his smile. "Just for you to drive around the locale, not for town."

"Mycroft, this car is far too good to keep for just the country," Cate didn't know what to look at first – everything demanded her attention simultaneously. "It is a seriously _fabulous_ ride."

"I am so pleased you like it," he sounded amused his gift was so appreciated.

"I can't wait to say 'thank you' in person," she grinned, knowing the expression he'd have on his face.

"And how is a 'thank you' in person likely to be different from this?" Cate heard a small shift in his voice.

"This one involves me in a garage in Surrey and you in an office in Whitehall, fully clothed, vertical and behaving in a respectable manner," she managed to sound serious.

"_Ah_." Cate definitely sensed interest there.

"The bedroom will be a little crowded with your dinner guest there as well, won't it?"

"Oh, I think our bed is quite large enough for three." Cate bit her lip not to laugh.

There was a pointed silence on the phone. "You realise I will have that image with me until tomorrow night?" Mycroft's voice gave a slight impression of strain. "And quite possibly longer."

"Really, darling_?_" Cate sounded as innocuous as she could, though by now the urge to laugh was becoming an ache. She clamped a hand over her mouth

"Depraved wanton." He was smiling again: she could hear it in his words.

"If you play your cards right," the laugh finally bubbled through.

"Enjoy the Bentley, my Sweet," Mycroft said softly. "See you tomorrow night."

Heading to the kitchen, Cate sought out Mrs Compton. "Nora? Do we need any fresh stuff from the village?"

"Not really," she shook her head. "Except maybe some more milk."

"Then put your jacket back on," Cate jangled the Bentley's key between her fingers. "We're going for a drive."

###

It was amazing really, the power that one small act could confer. As the letter went into the post-box, the author smiled inwardly. So self-important and superior; how wrong could you be about another person? Cate Adin, or rather, _Adin-Holmes_ as she called herself now, would come down to earth with a nasty landing very soon. And then everyone would see her for how she _really_ was. The letter-writer experienced a distinct feeling of supremacy as they turned and walked back towards the university.

###

Cate was in love. The Bentley was a dream: light as a breeze, yet with an amazing amount of acceleration and grunt for the steep little hills and unexpected straights. The power-steering made it a joy to handle and, despite its mass, it floated along like a cloud.

Pulling to a stop outside the local grocer's shop, Cate saw buckets of flowers on the pavement and thought how lovely it would be to have some fresh arrangements around the place. Mrs Compton proceeded to fill her basket with local bits and pieces, while Cate brought in a large armful of her favourite Gardenias, with several enormous bunches of white Lilac and Honeysuckle. Their perfume was intense and Cate relished it. London flowers never smelled this uninhibited.

Back at Deepdene, Mrs Compton began marshalling her resources in the large kitchen, making out a list of foods she intended to prepare and freeze for future use.

"I'll arrange these flowers before I do anything else," Cate started hauling out some massive vases from the old Butler's pantry, including a stunning blue-and-white one with Chinese overtones. This one would go in the dining room. Another, scarcely smaller, would do very well in the master suite, and the really huge Japanese Imari would be perfect for main entrance. Hunting down a pair of secateurs from one of the workshops, Cate was pleased to discover an old but capacious flat-bottomed flower trug. Heading out to the kitchen garden and beyond, it was plain to see that there was a great deal of harvesting to do: the garden was stuffed with all kinds of ripe edibles. Smiling, Cate wondered just how much room there was in the freezer.

Beyond the old brick wall of the kitchen garden was the Italian landscaping, but between the two was a wide area of floral shrubbery. Aiming for this, Cate's eyes widened at the sheer vibrancy of the flowers waiting for her. The deepest of dark red roses; exotic Jacobean lilies. And there was an incredible perfume; looking around, she spotted the tall white spikes of summer Tuberose. _Oh God_, Cate inhaled deeply. If there ever was such a place as heaven, this would be it. Such a shame for these incredible blooms to die unseen; she flexed the secateurs. Deepdene would be redolent with their fragrance before nightfall.

Back in the kitchen, the two women worked together at their self-appointed tasks until Cate's stomach reminded her that breakfast was a long time ago.

"I'm starving and I want a cup of tea," she announced, completing the last vase. "What shall I make us to eat?" she asked.

"Oh no, pet," Nora Compton waved her hands. "I brought some cold chicken down, thought I'd make us a nice salad," shooing Cate out. "You go and fix up those lovely flowers and I'll have lunch ready in a tick."

Grinning at the motherly approach, Cate did as she was told, lugging out the big Imari to the centre table on the entrance hall. Realising she should have done this before she'd filled it with water, she walked slowly and very carefully. Once she'd put it down though, she was delighted with the effect: _inspired_. Beautiful; elegant; fragrant. Cate was happy to have all her senses filled with such things. Locating the remaining arrangements to their appropriate homes, she kept the sweetest-scented for the master bedroom. It would be wonderful to wake up to sunlight and perfume.

Lunching outside in the dappled warmth, Cate poured a chilled Chablis for them both and tried to think of a better word than _perfect_.

"I'm going for a walk before I fall over and go to sleep," full of chicken and wine, Cate stretched and felt happy. "Which is a nice way to go?"

"Head down through the orchard," Nora waved vaguely westward. "Go on down along by the small river and then follow the woods back around."

Taking her phone and nothing else, Cate headed off to follow Mrs Compton's advice. It really was warm and the heavy sound of bees drunk on summer pollen followed her all the way through the gardens. Her footsteps crunched softly on the drying grass as she passed through the formal gardens and into the wilder parts beyond. Seeing a large oak, Cate smiled as she wandered over: yes, there was the small stone bench. This was where Mycroft had proposed the first time. It seemed ages ago: so much had happened in between then and now. Chewing on a stem of fescue, she wandered down a light decline towards a line of darker trees and longer, lusher grass. The soft sound of hidden water trickled somewhere. It was cooler here in the shade, with a greener, earthier perfume.

Following the line of trees, Cate found herself unexpectedly in a bowl of sun: hidden from everywhere, yet with a line-of-site through the copse of trees, this was a wonderful spot to paint: no breeze, no noise, nobody to see. This is where she'd bring her paints in the morning.

Back up along the crest of the hillside, there were more glorious views, as well as a gentle breeze that cooled her face. A deeper set of woods covered the slopes ahead of her: really too big to go through on this visit. The Far Woods. This was where Mycroft's father had died. Taking a deep breath, she knew she'd have to make the pilgrimage at some point: to stand on the same ground as the man whose son had taken her heart. From the very top of the hill, she turned, looking back down behind her. The house was displayed in all its glory: glowing pale golden in the late summer afternoon, the gardens hugged it like some special secret. Cate felt her insides tremble a little as she looked at the landscape before her. There were no words for this. Exhaling a slow sigh of pleasure, she started back down to the house.

The sun was beginning to lower when she arrived back, though the interior of the old house was still warm from the radiated heat of the day's sun. The fragrance of the flowers had already colonised the entire house, and Mrs Compton came out of the kitchen wiping her hands sniffing appreciatively.

"Lovely summer smell with those flowers of yours," she said. "Follows you all over the place."

Cate smiled. "Can never have too many flowers around the place," she said. "In case you ever wonder about having flowers at home, please feel free to get anything you can whenever you can." Cate looked agreeable. "Especially Gardenia: my favourites."

Mrs Compton looked knowing. "I gathered that from when you and Mr Mycroft were courting," she smiled. "First flowers he'd had in that house in years. Made a nice change."

"_Um_," Cate, hesitated. "Do you think you could show me those paintings you mentioned earlier? I've been thinking about them on and off all day."

"Certainly Miss Cate," Nora Compton hung the towel over her shoulder and beckoned Cate up the broad staircase. At the top on the first floor, the Long Gallery ran the entire length of the house, with various bedrooms and bathrooms branching off. It was hung with a fine selection of portraiture. At the end farthest from the master suite, the Housekeeper paused and pointed at the very last painting on the wall.

"Lady Elinor Holmes," she said.

Stepping closer, Cate absorbed the details of Mycroft and Sherlock's mother. She had indeed been a beauty: wavy dark hair; a thoughtful mouth and two of the most piercing blue eyes she'd ever seen in a painting. Those eyes could look fierce: She knew this because Mycroft had precise duplicates. Sharp and steely or smouldering and secretive, his were identical to his mother's. Elinor had been painted wearing a deep blue dress revealing a décolletage of creamy white skin. Cate also saw where Sherlock inherited his long limbs and almost swan-like neck. He was also his mother's son. Standing next to such an astonishingly exquisite woman, Cate wondered afresh what Mycroft had seen in _her_: she was nothing compared to this striking creature.

"And over here is Sir Jocelyn," Mrs Compton pointed to a picture placed directly opposite Elinor's.

Cate sucked in a sharp breath: _God, this could be Mycroft_. A tall man with a formidable expression, he looked about to disagree with the artist right from the canvas. He must have been hellishly intimidating to paint. Another pair of blue eyes, though these were paler; lucent with grey. Sherlock's eyes. His hair was dark, yet not like Elinor's: there was a faint tinge of auburn about him. But the hawklike eyebrows and slightly cruel mouth were Mycroft's without a doubt. Cate felt her skin prickle. She would have liked to meet them both. _Hello, Parents-in-Law_.

"_Wow_," she muttered. "What amazing paintings." Turning to the older woman, "why are they all the way down here?" she asked. "I would have thought they'd be in the Drawing room, or at least more central in the house?"

"Mr Mycroft specifically had them put down here," Mrs Compton shrugged. "Maybe he doesn't want to be reminded of them too often?"

"I'll have to ask him," Cate looked at the portraits again before walking towards the main attic door. "I promised myself a bit of an explore in here," she pointed upwards. "Do you need me for anything, Nora?"

"Not at all Miss Cate," she said. "I'm doing some nice baked salmon for dinner, so I'll give you a call in an hour or so. What kind of wine would you like?"

Cate thought. "Do we have any champagne? Something quite dry?" she asked. "That's always good with a heavy fish like salmon, or," she added, "a nice pinot-noir would be delicious."

"I'll see what's in the cellar," the Housekeeper nodded. "Though I'd be very surprised if there's not plenty of both down there."

Stepping in through the door to the attics, Cate switched all the lights on. In some ways, Deepdene's attics were too pristine to qualify for the term: real attics needed to be dusty and hung with cobwebs. These were clean and airy. Wandering around, Cate found crates of old school books stacked neatly together. Lifting one out and flicking to the title page, she could just make out the words '_Property of M. Holmes Esq_.' She grinned. He must have been a proper little annoyance at school. Wondering, she tried to imagine him at Oxford. There must be some photos of him around here – she'd have to find them. Suddenly, the idea of unearthing old pictures of her husband became quite tantalising. She'd keep them hidden until he was being particularly irritating, then bring them out one at a time. Cate started opening every trunk and cardboard box within reach.

There was a large old steamer-trunk over against one wall beneath a dormer window. Thick dark leather bound with heavy, unwieldy leather strips made it tough to open, but she persevered. There were no photos, but there were dresses and gowns. Folded carefully inside tissue-paper or pale silk sheets, Cate gently lifted one out. It was tiny across the shoulders and waist: Belgian lace, clearly much older than Elinor's day. This must have been Mycroft's grandmother's. How lovely. Laying it aside, Cate investigated further, spotting something dark and silky that swished against itself as she slipped it from its quiet nest.

_Oh Lord_. It was gorgeous. Dark green silk organza off the shoulders, tight at the waist, 1950s cocktail frock. This had to be Elinor's. And it was unbelievably elegant. Before she even realised what she was doing, Cate was stripping out of her light silk top and capris, and was wriggling into the dress just to see if it might … _possibly_ … fit. Because it lay just off the shoulders, there was no tightness across the bust, and thankfully, Cate's waist had always been small, so it fitted there too. Fumbling with the back zip, Cate looked around for a mirror and _hurrah_ there was an old cheval in the corner. Padding across, Cate took a look at herself. _Oh_. Even unprepared and rough like this, Cate knew the dress made her look special.

She had to wear it for dinner tomorrow night. She'd ask Mycroft to bring down something with emeralds and she'd surprise him. Pausing for a moment, wondering if he might be offended at her dressed in his mother's fine feathers, she shook her head. He wouldn't be so foolish. Changing back into her own clothes, she picked up the dress and closed the trunk, promising herself she'd be back for another look.

Heading down to the kitchen, Cate confronted Mrs Compton.

"Nora," she grinned, holding the green silk up. "I plan to seduce my husband and would appreciate your assistance."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

_The Diogenes – A Menu of Seduction – Another Game – The Weaker Sex – Dinner and Desire – A Picnic – A False Pretext – Rules Are Rules – Simply Foul – The Key._

#

#

It had been a while since he'd been here, although St. James' never really changed. Walking though the marbled portico and towards the lower staircase, Mycroft nodded briefly to Watkins, the current Door Porter, before making his way up to the Propylaea of the Diogenes Club for Gentlemen. Being after six, there were already a number of members in their usual seats, most barricaded behind _The Telegraph_ or, for those with unbridled revolutionary tendencies, _The Times_. Not that it would have mattered: the prime and possibly the only rule in the Diogenes, named for the famous Cynic, was that no member was permitted to take the least notice of any other member in the Common Rooms. There were a quantity of lesser-frequented enclaves for discussion and _intermingling_ should one feel unbearably denied of social intercourse, but these were not the main attractions of the place. Members of the Diogenes were almost entirely upper-middle class or Professional men: Loners; misanthropes; misogynists, or simply reclusive hermit-types preferring the older, private ways, to the modern community of overt socialisation. Mycroft had been one of the Club's founders, years previously, when it appeared his entire life would consist of service to the Crown and a bachelor's single bed.

Given Cate's self-imposed absence, Mycroft felt an evening at the Diogenes would be, in its own way, a pleasant interlude. Seeking out his preferred chair in a far and secluded corner, he nodded to one of the waiters' silent coded questions. Within moments, a crystal tumbler of Ardbeg was at his table which also held a selection of the day's broadsheets. Sighing quietly, he relaxed back into the cushioned comfort to enjoy his paper and a good malt. He was at peace.

###

Following her unusual request, Mrs Compton looked at Cate for a moment before a big smile spread over her face. "You sounded just like Madam used to," she shook her head. "Miss Elinor were always coming out with such wild ideas and she would go off laughing about them," she sighed. "Takes me right back, that does."

Attempting to correlate the Housekeeper's image of Mycroft's mother with the portrait of the beautiful but distant Elinor in the Long gallery, was a difficult exercise. Elinor Holmes did not appear to be the laughing-about-wild-ideas-type. Cate thought Nora's comment was interesting though: it might partially explain why Mycroft had fallen in love with her.

"Will you help?" she asked.

"Course I will, lovey," the older woman laughed. "What do you want me to do?"

Holding up the found silk "Can you clean this for me for tomorrow night, do you think? It smells a little musty and it's terribly creased," Cate frowned. "I'm terrified I'm going to wreck it if I try anything."

"Easy as pie, my dear," the Housekeeper lifted the dress up to have a closer look. "It'll be ready and waiting for you before dinner tomorrow. What are you going to wear with it?"

"I shall ask Mycroft to bring a couple of things down from home, as well as his dinner jacket," Cate grinned. "May as well make a proper evening of it."

"Then you'll want something really special for dinner," Mrs Compton suggested. "How about venison?"

"And for an entrée?"

"Do you like smoked trout?" Nora asked. "We could make a trout mousse with Melba toast, then the venison and then …"

"I saw the peaches were ripe in the Orangery," Cate nodded. "How about grilled peaches with ice-cream, and then coffee? That sounds pleasant."

"With champagne aperitifs and something red and rustic with the game," Mrs Compton smiled. "I haven't cooked Mr Mycroft a decent meal like that for an eternity," she looked happy. It will be a pleasure to make it for you."

"You're not going to have all the fun," Cate gave the older woman a grin. "I'm going to be inventive with the mousse."

"If you must, then you must," the Housekeeper sighed. She would have to be content with the main course and the dessert. Still, it would be a nice change to the cold chicken sandwiches Mycroft used to ask for before his marriage.

Talk of all the food had alerted Cate's stomach to the possibilities of nourishment, and it began making its demands known. "Dinner?" she asked, hopefully.

Mrs Compton laughed. "Five minutes," she pointed towards the refrigerator. "Go open the champagne."

###

After a pleasant, if solitary, dinner, Mycroft felt an unusual desire for company. Prior to his marriage, he would return to his favourite chair and read, or review work files until it was time to head home. But life with Cate seemed to have mediated his need for solitude somewhat, until, as this evening, Mycroft found himself in the acutely odd position of actively desiring someone with whom to talk. Perhaps there might be an acquaintance in the Card Room, a central, though private area with a large and ancient bar, as well as fifteen or twenty tables. Ostensibly, for card playing _only_, in practice, however, the place functioned as an unofficial gambling den. The silent rule did not apply in here, nor was it frowned upon to congregate with one's fellow members as long as the purpose of losing personal credibility or cash was at hand. As with all Members-only areas, the Card Room had its own rules and traditions. In this case, no strangers, women or dogs were permitted, although a member had once ridden a mare called _Charming_ _Rover_ through the place, for a bet. The man's membership privileges had been quietly revoked.

A hand raised itself in greeting "Mycroft, _hullo_," Piers Calvert waved him over. "Haven't seen you around for some time, old man," he nodded affably, waving towards an empty seat. "Care to join us?"

Replying with a faint smile, Mycroft sat, a waiter at his side in a matter of moments.

"Your usual, Sir?"

Nodding, Mycroft glanced briefly at the men around the table.

Piers, an old Oxford friend, who had made a disastrous early marriage and who, following the inevitable protracted divorce, publicly vowed never in the future to associate with the same woman for longer than a month. To Mycroft's knowledge, he had followed this pledge quite assiduously, his ensuing lifestyle leading to a veritable throng of society scandals, several divorces among some of the country's most notable families, and, if rumour were correct, at least one recognised, though illegitimate child. Coasting into a handsome middle-age, the man was an amiable dilettante and social butterfly, but still, a decent chap, as long as you were not between sixteen and sixty and remotely female.

Calvert's two card-playing companions were not nearly as pleasant, and Mycroft wondered for a moment what the three of them had in common to bring them to the same table in the first place.

Douglas Kettering: Stockbroker for Lloyds. Viciously clever and, as Mycroft had been led to believe, insanely competitive. Stories abounded of Kettering's inability to accept a loss: either in the Share-trading world or his personal one. Not really interested in establishing a more cordial relationship with the man, Mycroft had only minimal dealings with him thus far.

The third player was even less known: Head of a regulatory financial body and something to do with venture capital, Colin Hawker, or as the latest gossip intimated, soon to be _Sir_ Colin, was something important but undefined, in the City.

Deriving a conclusion, Mycroft looked carefully at Calvert. Was there a hint of duress in his expression? These three made unlikely bedfellows.

"Not often here, these days, Holmes?" Kettering gulped down a third of his scotch. The edge of his words already beginning to blur. The man would be incapable within the hour.

"Only a finite number of hours in the day," Mycroft's smile was civil.

"Got yourself married recently, I hear," Hawker grinned. "Under the thumb, eh?"

"My wife does not perceive a need for thumbs," Mycroft looked into his glass, a faint smile on his lips. "She is more likely to be rousting activists and leading the charge for the Oxford comma than worrying about my activities." He looked up. "I am deeply fortunate."

"Perhaps," Kettering shrugged. "Being a wife is nature's intended place for women," he rubbed his eyes. "After all," he added, "the weaker sex are not really much use anywhere else except the bedroom, are they, _eh_?" Turning to Hawker for validation, the two men chuckled at their own enlightenment.

Mycroft looked inwards to a place that despised such gross inanities. Anyone assuming Cate to be a member of the weaker sex knew nothing whatsoever about women.

Calvert turned to him with a look of apology. "No offence to your wife was intended, I'm sure," he said.

Mycroft was silent: he wasn't so certain_._

_###_

"And your dinner jacket please?" Cate was ticking off a list of things she needed to ask Mycroft to bring down to Deepdene with him that night.

"We are expecting guests?"

"Only the one special guest," Cate was smiling on the phone.

"This would be one of your dinner events?" Mycroft was also smiling. He enjoyed Cate's culinary experiments. And if it made her happy, a little effort on his part was no effort at all.

"There is another thing I wanted to ask you," she said, after a slight hesitation.

"What, my love?"

"Hypothetically," Cate began. "If I told you I'd found something in the attic belonging to your mother and I wanted to wear it, would that upset you?" she said. "I don't want to accidently upset you."

"So upsetting me intentionally is perfectly acceptable?" Mycroft laughed lightly. "If I'm delighted with you in her jewels," he said, "I'm not going to be worried about anything else of hers you might favour." Cate heard the smile again. "Do as you please, my darling: I'm positive my mother would not object."

"In that case," Cate added to her list. "Could you bring those lovely emerald earrings with you? The ones with the gold filigree?"

"Anything else?" Mycroft felt he should be getting tired of this domestic minutia, but found he was actually enjoying it. Such a change from dealing with the slaughter of innocents and the mass-extremism of the newly technocratic.

"I think that's all," Cate sighed, happy. "Nora is making us a spectacular dinner, and then I plan to have you all to myself." Her grin was invisible, but he knew it was there. "And I intend to make you go weak at the knees."

The tone of his wife's voice already had various parts giving a standing ovation: his knees barely made the list. "Until tonight, Darling Cate."

He arrived just before dark. The weather was still very warm, and the windows of the Jaguar had been down since they left London proper. The scent of the country: fresh hay; trees; the aroma of farms – Mycroft felt he was really coming home.

Walking through the main door at the front, Mycroft heard women's laughter in the kitchen. Clearly, Cate and Mrs Compton had become closer friends in recent hours. He walked through, his arms full of packages.

"After hunting and gathering, all I hear are women laughing," he announced in the kitchen where they were giggling over something worthy. "Are you cooking the fatted calf?"

"_Darling_!" Cate dropped everything and danced over. "Wondered when you'd eventually get here." Ignoring his burdens, she pulled his face down to hers and kissed him softly and particularly.

Not able to hurl his cargo to the ground, yet Mycroft was tempted. Apart for less than two days and she set his pulse racing with the slightest touch.

"I come bearing gifts," he said, his eyes soaking up everything about her.

"Gifts?" Cate grinned. "Gifts as in _gifts_? Or as in mail?"

"That too," Mycroft smiled. "I've a small bag of post for you."

"Later," she smiled. "Tomorrow. _Maybe_. Perhaps."

"How long before dinner?"

Cate looked at Mrs Compton "An hour?" the Housekeeper nodded.

"I just have to set the table and my work is done." Cate smiled up into a pair of blue eyes.

"I can do that, Miss Cate," Nora dried her hands, waving her away. "You go off and tend to your husband."

Mycroft looked pleased. "You have to tend to me," he murmured into her hair. "Mrs Compton says so."

"Before dinner?" Cate laughed, then squeaked as she was pulled irresistibly out of the kitchen.

Nora Compton chuckled. Lady Elinor would have liked Mycroft's choice: there was much in common there. Even Sir Jocelyn would have liked his daughter-in-law: he always did appreciate a combination of looks and brains.

Laying out newly polished silverware and crisply smooth white linen, she fussed over the table-flowers and straightened the white candles in both silver candelabra. The table looked beautiful, just as Miss Cate had wanted: evidently, she had a grand night planned. Nora Compton smiled again_. Newlyweds_.

In the master bedroom, it was very quiet. It was very quiet because Mycroft had his arms wrapped tightly around his wife, kissing her slowly and tortuously to a point of mutual intoxication.

Pushing herself away from his mouth and the soft sounds of his pleasure, Cate breathed deeply. "Perhaps we should wait until after dinner," she muttered_._

"I'd really rather not." Mycroft drew her back against him, reclaiming her lips as she failed entirely to stop the tremors that left her helpless in his arms._ Sweet_ _God, Cate_. He felt a surge of heat right to his fingertips: a drive of desire and purpose that left him parched and burning. He groaned into her as her arms pulled him closer.

"Thought your impulse control was better than this," she gasped as his hands caressed the curves of her breast and waist, and the plane of a shoulder, pushing her partially opened blouse away from the soft expanse of her throat.

"I have no control where you are involved," he groaned into her neck.

The movement of bone and muscle beneath Cate's velvet-soft skin was driving him mad: Mycroft combed his fingers through the thickness of her hair to hold her still while he took his time with her mouth. His heart thundering in his ears, he no longer had any thought but to take what she wanted to give him. Cate shuddered again, rising into his kiss, her fingers a tightening cradle of his head.

"Thought you wanted to defer gratification?" he murmured, his breathing rough and erratic.

"Too late," she growled, backing towards the bed while pushing his jacket off one-handed.

Mycroft exulted, triumphant. Lowering her to the soft bedcovers, he continued to explore and claim for his own, the new world that was Cate.

###

"What do you think?" her voice was slightly tentative as she emerged from the bathroom. "Do you like it?"

Mycroft turned from inserting the second of his cufflinks, and stared. If it weren't for his already agreeable fatigue and sense of ease, his wife's appearance would have obliterated any notion of restraint. She looked … unbelievable.

In a striking dark-green dress which left her shoulders bare, displayed her slenderness to perfection, and which swished provocatively around her lower body, Cate _glowed_. The emerald earrings he'd brought lit her face; her hair rippled silkily in the dim light and her crimsoned mouth demanded his attention. He felt feverish. He felt lightheaded.

"So you finally show me your true colours," In this light and in the reflected flame of the jewels, her eyes were more green than brown.

"At last," he murmured, "You allow me to see." Lifting her hand, he pressed his lips to the palm. He gazed at her, absorbed her. "Marry me."

Cate laughed. "I _did_ marry you," she grinned.

"Then marry me again," he said, his eyes glittering. "Marry me every day."

"I do," she touched her lips to his. "Every day."

Mycroft's hands slid smoothly around her waist, tiny in this dress. "I love you," his whisper was barely audible.

"I know."

"I'm hungry," he said softly.

"I know that too," she laughed, taking him down to dinner.

The food was wonderful. The wine superb. Conversation was intimate and amusing. Coffee and dessert were perfect. The appearance of his mother's dress and emerald earrings made him realise how fortunate his father had been. How strange that it took his wife to offer an insight into his parent's world.

"You mentioned something about a special guest," Mycroft stared at her, mesmerised. "Your eyes are green, tonight."

"Must be the candlelight," Cate said.

"So, this special guest?" Mycroft continued. "Have you decided where he's going to sleep?"

Looking introspective, Cate lifted her eyebrows. "I first thought I could put him out in the garage," she said, "but now there's a damn great big car there, so that won't work." She sighed. "I thought then of the main guest room, but realised there's no soap in the bathroom." She sighed again, hopelessly. "So he's going to have to sleep with me, I'm afraid." Looking noble, Cate shrugged. "The role of the hostess is never easy."

"I think he'd appreciate sharing your bed," Mycroft smiled fractionally. "You might too," he added, sipping his cognac.

"Not sure about that," she said. "I take up a lot of room when I sleep." Cate smiled and Mycroft felt his heart thud once again as the light caught the sweep of her face and the shining arc of her hair: the dark promise of her eyes and the lips so lusciously curved for him.

"That's interesting," he said, looking thoughtful.

"What's interesting?"

"I find it interesting," Mycroft looked mild. "That your plan includes sleep."

###

Cate was in the middle of appreciating Mrs Compton's homemade marmalade at breakfast as she sat, curled in a decadent recline, in the morning sun.

"Thought these might come in handy," Mycroft passed over a wrapped carton as he stood to pour himself more coffee.

Licking stickiness from her hand, Cate sat forward, looking briefly at her husband before lifting the package into her lap.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Open it and see," Mycroft smiled, picking up his newspaper.

Sliding several fingers between the wrapping seals, she swiftly tore through the paper to see a new box of her favourite paints.

"Oh, that's brilliant, thank you," she sat up, pulling out tubes of yellow ochre and crimson lake. "I've been intending to get fresh supplies, but keep being distracted by some mad public servant who insists he's my husband."

"Public servants," Mycroft shook his head, sagely. "A dangerous crowd and not to be trifled with."

"Oh, I don't know," Cate crunched a piece of toast. "I can think of at least one public servant with whom I'd like to trifle." She waggled her eyebrows suggestively, grinning.

"And what have you planned for today?" he asked, straight-faced, the merest shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Thought I'd take a canvas and go to a little place I found yesterday down through the orchard," she remembered the warm bowl of sunlight. "A perfect place: out of the wind, quiet, but with a lovely view through the trees."

"Sounds ideal for painting," Mycroft folded the paper and stood. "I'll take a walk with you."

Retracing her steps of yesterday, Cate took him past the large oak and stone bench with a smile on her face. They strolled on down towards the line of greener growth and darker grass, then headed up the other side of the hill until they reached the exact place Cate described.

As before, it was warm and hushed and peaceful.

Setting up the lid of her paint-box as an easel, Cate busied herself with her usual pre-painting routines. Mycroft pulled a large travel rug from the basket Mrs Compton had packed for them.

_"A picnic_," she had offered. "The very thing."

Folding his pale linen jacket into a pillow, he lay diagonally across the tartan rug, watching his wife as she started sketching an outline in faint strokes of charcoal. Cate's attention was focused entirely upon the canvas, and Mycroft found himself fascinated by the furrow between her eyes and the way she bit her lower lip. It seemed as if this activity was more pain than pleasure. Cate drew in steady sweeps, only the sound of her hand brushing the canvas and the click of pencils in the box … and it was so warm and still …

A cool kiss woke him from a light slumber.

"Sleeping Beauty slept for a hundred years," Cate smiled into his eyes as he blinked himself awake. "But you had nearly a couple of hours," she handed him a glass of cold champagne. "Pleasant snooze?"

"I dreamed of you," he stretched and rolled over onto an elbow, sipping the dry wine.

Cate lay down beside him, staring up at thin wisps of fluffy clouds high up beyond the birds, sipping from her own glass. "What did you dream?"

"I dreamed we were having a picnic," Mycroft emptied his glass returning it to the basket. "And that you came and lay beside me," he added, leaning towards her. "And that I did this." He kissed her appreciatively. "And that you asked me to make love to you." He smiled down at her.

Cate scanned his normally so-serious face. It was rare for him to look so relaxed and trouble-free. She smiled too.

There really was only one thing to say.

_###_

It had been an idyllic few days. Almost a honeymoon, in fact, which they never really had managed to organise at the time of the wedding. They were ready to leave. The kitchen garden was harvested: everything Mrs Compton wanted brought back to town was packed in a variety of boxes: the rest had either been cooked and frozen, or driven down to the local shop to give away. Cate had completed two paintings as far as she was able given that she couldn't overpaint wet oils. The tip of Mycroft's nose was pink.

"I think you're going to peel," Cate rubbed something cool on his skin.

"Holmes men never peel," he muttered.

"Of course not, darling." Cate rolled her eyes, laughing. "The laws of thermodynamics simply do not apply in this case."

"You're mocking me," Mycroft sounded untroubled.

"Only a very little, my love," she kissed his cheek. His arm slid around her waist and hugged her to him. He couldn't imagine being more in love with Cate than he was right at this moment. It would be an impossibility. There was a rustling in one of his pockets.

Making a small sound of annoyance, he patted his jacket. "Totally forgot to give these to you," he said, handing her a small bundle of envelopes. The top one and the one beneath it were both bills.

"I'll get to them later," Not really in the mood to face bills, Cate threw them into her bag, and the bag in the back seat of the Jaguar. Within minutes, they were rolling through the English countryside towards home.

###

Hawker had Calvert baled up next to the bar in the Card Room.

Having one of the Diogenes Quarterly Financial Meetings to attend – the bane of modern administration – Mycroft had decided to make an evening of it. Following a passable dinner, he was once again in the Card Room, and once again pondering the rationale connecting Piers Calvert with the odious Kettering and Hawker.

Piers, Mycroft sighed inwardly at the thought, had called Hawker on the latter's increasingly outspoken and unpalatable views of women. Though many might consider Calvert's own behaviour reprehensible, he always acted transparently and without malice. Nor did he attempt to justify his actions to anyone.

Hawker, on the other hand, was insidious and, apparently, warming to violence. The man was a menace, Mycroft decided. Time he was ushered off to greener pastures, if any of them would have him, of course.

Plainly hearing the rising tone of discomfort in Calvert's voice, Mycroft intervened.

"Not really the done thing, is it?" he asked Hawker civilly, looking the man over.

"What the bloody hell are you talking about, Holmes?" Colin Hawker coloured under such calm yet intense scrutiny.

"The Diogenes is a place for considered thought and argument," Mycroft continued, quietly. "Not thuggery and pugilism. If you consider these aspects desirable, there are any number of Clubs around St James who would, I'm sure, be thrilled to accommodate you."

"Damn you, Mycroft," Hawker glared in barely contained anger. "You'll regret your pompous arrogance one of these days, just you wait." Pushing Calvert aside, Hawker stormed off to get a drink.

Turning to his friend, "Really Piers, if you must associate with financiers in order to bale yourself out of fiscal improprieties, then at least select someone sound."

"How did you know I needed money?" Calvert was puzzled. "I've taken great care that nobody here would get even a whiff of my problems."

"Not the issue at hand," Mycroft dismissed the question. It was patently obvious that the only reason he was consorting with the likes of Kettering and Hawker was that he had tapped out his usual sources of funding. "But if you needed a loan, why not come to me?"

Calvert flushed. "Not _friends_, Mycroft," he muttered. "Never from friends."

Shaking his head in exasperation, Mycroft returned to the table.

There was something on the carpet beneath his chair. Leaning forward, Mycroft retrieved his Blackberry. _Strange_. He hadn't used the phone in here this evening. Could it have fallen from his pocket? Returning it to a more secure, inner home, Mycroft studied his cards.

Perhaps he might be able to assist Piers in taking money from Kettering and Hawker in other ways.

###

The text read simply '_Your husband in accident – come to Diogenes – Card room_.'

Even as a rush of ice and fear made her heart stutter, Cate grabbed her bag, house keys and leather jacket, flagging down a taxi before she was even out of the front door.

"I'll give you two hundred if you break the law," she told the driver. His answer was a sudden acceleration. Screeching through St James, the cab dragged itself to a halt outside the becolumned portico of the Diogenes Club. Throwing a pile of notes through the window, Cate ran at full-tilt through the splendid granite entry advising visitors that, for their convenience, no women or dogs were allowed; hurtled unseeing across the gleaming mahogany floor of the lobby; flew past a thunderstruck Watkins and raced up the broad sweep of stairs to the first floor landing. Knowing it would be pointless to ask for directions, she attempted to recall Mycroft's description of the interior as best she could, given her mind's current preoccupation with an imaginative variety of horrors.

Rushing from one open doorway to the next, oblivious to the expressions of the members which ranged from a general startlement to outright panic, she ended up before a pair of hugely tall mahogany panelled doors bearing the plate _Members Card Room_. Pushing them open, she dashed into the large open space, her eyes scanning everything and everyone inside, expecting paramedics; men in yellow coats with radios; a body on the floor.

It was intensely quiet, and, as she stood, chest heaving, it grew even more so. Slow movement of the human body was usually silent, but Cate could swear she heard a faint creaking sound as the heads of more than sixty men turned to look at her.

One of them belonged to her husband.

Sitting, relaxed, at one of the card tables, Mycroft was in his shirtsleeves with a tumbler of something amber and a cigar. In front of him was a hand of cards and a pile of poker chips. Seeing her, his expression flashed through recognition, puzzlement and alarm.

"_Cate_?" Relinquishing both glass and cigar, Mycroft stood, striding over and clasping her arms. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

Her throat closed in abject relief; she could only lean against him and gasp as she caught her breath. "Thought you were hurt," she croaked. "Expected to see you in an ambulance."

"Hurt? Mycroft frowned. "What on earth would make you imagine I'd be in an ambulance?" he led her to the nearest chair before her legs folded. Retrieving his glass, he made her sip from it. It was smoky and very strong, but Cate felt the heat burn some strength back into her body. Taking a shuddering breath, she pulled out her phone and flicked to the text message.

Mycroft examined the sender's number: it was his. The text had come from his own Blackberry not more than twenty minutes before. But that was impossible, because … He stopped. _It could have originated from his phone_, Mycroft realised, because the phone might not have been in his possession at the time. In which case, the person who had sent this text was still likely in the room. This was a prank. _Or possibly not_. The beginnings of anger stirred him. It wasn't only the fact that someone had used his phone and accessed his extremely private numbers without request or authorisation. _That_, in itself, was outrageous. However, whoever did this also caused acute distress for Cate. _That,_ he simply would not have.

The silence was complete. Everyone in the room was still agog. This drama was too good to miss.

"No dogs _or_ women, Mycroft?" Kettering's priorities on full display as he muttered nastily. "Rules are rules." There was an unpleasant edge to his voice.

"My wife was brought here by a false pretext, Kettering," he said, staring the man down.

"Nothing in the statutes to distinguish between forms of breach," Kettering stated. The man was correct in his offensively slimy way.

"Besides, _Holmes_," Hawker piped up. "Now she's here, she can make good on your fanciful boast."

So _that_ was the way of things. Mycroft realised immediately what had happened. Hawker's argument with Calvert had been a distraction to cover for the fact that Kettering had misappropriated his phone and texted a false message to Cate in order to lure her to the club. His anger bubbled to a slow boil. Bad enough they attempt to play him for a fool, but to drag Cate into their petty squabble? Not the act of Gentlemen. Mycroft knew then that by the end of this day, either they, or he, would no longer be members of the Diogenes.

"My wife is under no compulsion to do anything," his voice was dangerously soft.

Recovering her composure, Cate listened to what showed every sign of becoming quite the argument, and wondered what on earth was going on.

"What fanciful boast?" she asked.

"Nothing important, Darling," Mycroft stared intently at his card-playing associates. Having mostly recovered from the shock of him _not_ being hurt, Cate was nevertheless hypersensitive to the nuances flying around her head. There was no emergency: the text was a hoax? Her heart had nearly stopped because of a _hoax_. She felt the first feather-touches of fury.

"_What_," she demanded, "is going on?" Taking a deep breath, she walked towards the table and the players.

The large, blustery individual Mycroft had called Kettering, spoke up.

"There is a central and faithfully-kept convention in this club of transgression and forfeit," he sneered, sprawling back in his chair, staring at her. "You being here is tantamount to trespass and demands a forfeit be paid."

Cate didn't think she liked this man. "I've heard about your archaisms," she said. If this utter boor imagined that for one second his patronising, dismissive tone would have the slightest impact on _any_ professional academic, he was incredibly ignorant. One didn't swim with sharks without growing a dorsal fin. "They're very illuminating," she added, though she didn't say of what.

"Given you are not a Member," Kettering continued, "the forfeit can be required from Mycroft, who is."

"I think we can get you home now, Cate." Mycroft clearly wanted her to leave – probably in order to give him an unimpeded line-of-fire. She had not missed the signs of his escalating temper. However, her own emergent rage was doing a fairly reasonable job all by itself.

"But I was so clearly summoned here for a reason," she said, smiling blissfully at Mycroft as she returned, grimly fascinated, to the conversation with the boor.

"I still don't understand your reference to a boast," she said in saccharine tones. "How can I possibly make restitution for something of which I know nothing?"

"We were discussing the weaker sex," he replied.

_Yes_. Kettering was simply foul. Cate would have enjoyed introducing him to certain of her feminist friends at the university. He would not have emerged from the encounter unscathed. Assuming, of course, he emerged at all. Her smile grew wider.

Mycroft slid his fingers around her upper arm, squeezing a gentle warning. He had seen her smile. It was not a good smile. Cate patted his hand. She was just getting warmed up.

"In our discussion," the second man, who, she realised, must be Hawker. "We agreed the problem with women as front-line troops was that it could not possibly work since women are incapable of maintaining the necessary discipline and commitment such roles demand." Kettering and Hawker exchanged self-righteous looks of consensus.

"Nor are women intended or fit for physical activities beyond the domestic," Hawker added. Cate recognised a perfectly serious statement of belief. _Dear God. He thinks it's true._

Raising her eyebrows, she turned to look at Mycroft who now wore a deep frown. Actively grinning, Cate wondered if there was any practical way these ghastly individuals might be disposed of while making it look like an accident.

"_And_ ..?" she prompted cheerfully, ignoring Mycroft's increasingly cautionary expression.

"And we used the example that just as a woman would be unable to retrieve the Key, then neither might such a _person_ be accepted into the armed services." Kettering smiled in an unspeakably oily way. Not only a boor and a fool, but also, she saw, an outright misogynist.

_Ah_. Cate's smiled deepened. _All was explained_. Kettering was frightened of women. He probably wouldn't know what to do with a vagina if one bit him, which, she realised, was quite possibly the problem in the first place.

"And the connection between this … _discussion_," her tone was the very essence of lightness itself. "And the problem of my, what was it _Darling_?" she turned to Mycroft as if she had lost the word. "Ah, _yes_. My _transgression_ of being where I am neither intended nor fit to be, is _what_, exactly?"

"Not a game, Cate," Mycroft murmured. "Take care."

"Your husband boasted you would be capable of retrieving the Key," Hawker announced, as if that made everything clear.

"Did you _boast_, darling?" Cate sounded shocked. "I'm shocked."

"No Member has been able to do this, and certainly no woman would be capable." Kettering added, nodding at Mycroft. "He said you could."

"What key, my love?" Cate's smile was by now well within the corona of stellar brilliance.

Mycroft looked at her judiciously as he pointed slowly up at the ceiling. "That one."

In that moment, Cate realised something had changed. Her manic smile turned more thoughtful as she understood that, whatever Mycroft had said, he had said it in earnest. He really thought she could retrieve this … she looked up.

_Key_. There was a key. It was a large, brass key, the sort beloved by Victorian landlords for waving aloft when evicting non-paying tenants into the cold, cold snow.

_The Key_ hung from a long length of chain, itself connected to the centre pendulum of a carved mahogany monstrosity embedded into the ceiling. The monstrosity – of serpentine shape and proportions – was attached by long decorative wooden rails running along and fixed to the ceiling each of which were also connected to the top of the bar. An ill-begotten miscreation of epic proportions, the bar itself was a massive U-shape, with the extreme curve of the U extruding well into the middle of the Card Room, and located almost directly beneath the ceiling fixture. The bar was itself an unbroken mahogany slab, panelled to death, with a solid-looking brass foot-rail all the way around its base. The rear arms of the bar were flush against the back wall, with large, shoulders of, _yes_, more carved mahogany, curving up from the level of the bar itself, towards the ceiling, like mini ski-ramps. It had to be nearly fifty feet from the back wall to the centre curve. The entire thing was carved and decorated to within an inch of its life: it was the ugliest and most complex piece of Victorian dross Cate had ever seen.

"You said I could retrieve _that_ key?" Cate turned to see Mycroft's eyes staring intently into her own.

"I believe you would have the ability to do so," he shrugged. "It's hardly important."

"Well of course I can retrieve it," Cate was unconcerned. "But why on earth would I?"

Kettering gave a disbelieving laugh. "You're as bad as your husband," he scorned. "It's been up there since before this building was a club, and no-one has ever managed it." He turned to Hawker. "The woman is as much a fabulist as Holmes himself."

_Well_. That was that, then. Cate smiled brightly as she felt Mycroft's fingers grip her shoulder. He knew precisely of what his wife was capable. He experienced a passing desire to make Kettering watch the recording of Cate in Spain with Bidarte.

"Very well, Gentlemen," she said. "I can see you are in need of an education, which, serendipitously," she said, "is my forte."

Looking at Mycroft, "what are the rules?" she asked. "I'm assuming I can't shoot it down with a pistol, or it would have been done a hundred times before now."

"You really don't have to do this, you know," despite himself and the dreary annoyance of Kettering and Hawker, Mycroft felt a distinct curiosity. If Cate said she could do it, then she could. He just wasn't sure what she might have in mind, although he found he was experiencing a rising desire to find out.

"Oh but I _do_, Darling," she batted her eyelashes. "Honour demands it."

Quashing a smile, he told her the rules of the challenge. No aids, no help and the attempt had to be completed in one go.

"Can you do this?" he asked.

Cate looked into his eyes. "Yes," she said, confidently. "Though you may not like _how_ I can do it."

"_And_?" Hawker demanded. "What's it to be? The Key or a forfeit?"

"Out of interest," Mycroft asked, "what penalty did you have in mind?" He looked outrageously casual.

"Your immediate resignation from the Club." Hawker grinned.

"A little draconian, don't you feel?"

"_Your_ boast, Holmes. _Your_ wife." Kettering was not to be left out in the gloating stakes. "We can see who wears the trousers in _your_ household."

"I'll get the key," Cate said. There was no option now.

"And shall we make the experience a little more interesting?" A disinterested bystander _might_ have described Mycroft's smile as shark-like. "Shall we place a small wager on the outcome?"

"What kind of wager?" Kettering was intrigued. The idea of not only beating Mycroft Holmes in his own Club, and being seen to do so by his peers, but also of making some money from the affair? Of course, he was interested. "How much?"

"Shall the loser donate, let's say, "Mycroft looked inquiringly at Cate, "Fifty thousand to a charity of the winner's choosing?"

"Fifty thousand?" Hawker was surprised. It was serious money. Even for him.

Cate whispered softly in Mycroft's ear.

"My wife desires that we make that fifty thousand _each_."

One hundred thousand pounds. Cate was positive she heard a collective sigh ripple around the room.

"And the loser," Mycroft smiled graciously, "or rather, _losers,_ are to remove themselves from the Club immediately, abdicating all membership privileges in perpetuity."

Cate whispered in his ear again.

"Really? Oh, very well." Mycroft turned to Kettering. "And apologise for being a total arse."

Kettering smirked. "I look forward to your apology, Holmes," Kettering signalled for a refreshed drink, slumping back into his chair with an anticipatory gleam.

"Are you positive you can do this?" Mycroft turned to Cate. "I don't care about losing the money and I really am not overly concerned about losing membership here, but I will be very unhappy if you hurt yourself."

Cate already knew what she was going to do. "_Sweetheart_," she smiled. "Don't worry."

Walking underneath the dangling key, Cate estimated its height from the floor to be around fifteen feet. Too high to jump unaided, too far to climb up chairs. Measuring distances by eye, she realised her first idea for retrieving the item was the only way she could do this.

Crossing back to Mycroft, she removed her brown leather jacket.

"Hold this for me darling, would you?" Then she pulled off the baggy cashmere jumper she wore, and finally, the white t-shirt she had on underneath. Standing in belted, close-fitting dark jeans and a dark singlet which only accentuated her slender shape, Cate kicked off her shoes. They would not be flexible enough for what she was about to do.

A solitary whistle came from the back of the crowd. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

The entire room was riveted. Once it was clear she was going for the key, word had spread and now the doorway and much of the open area in the room was packed with gawking Club members.

Looking around, Cate grinned. "This might take me a little while," she said. "At _ease_, Gentlemen."

Sitting, Mycroft hid a smile behind his hand. She seemed so confident, he only hoped she knew what she was doing, although her impromptu strip had been a mite disconcerting.

Taking a deep breath, Cate walked barefoot to the bar. Stepping up onto the brass rail, she hoisted herself up and backwards, sitting on the polished slab.

"Gentlemen," she requested, standing. "Could you remove your drinks for a moment?"

All the way down the length of the bar, tall and short glassware was suddenly shifted. Cate strode almost the entire distance, coming to a halt about fifteen feet from the rear wall.

Mycroft realised her plan. His mouth dried. He took a slow breath.

Focusing her thoughts only on what she was about to do, Cate rocked on her toes for a few seconds before erupting into a sharp burst of acceleration. She headed directly for the wall.

Running up one of the bar's curved wooden shoulders, Cate's speed was just sufficient to carry her up and up until it seemed she must crash back and fall.

At that moment, she jumped, pushing off from the bar, twisting her body in mid-air, extending her arms and fingers, stretching out and … by the _barest_ of margins, catching, one of the mahogany rails suspended from the high ceiling.

Suddenly forced to take Cate's weight, the ominous sound of creaking wood shattered the silence of the room, eliciting a quiet chorus of groans from the spectators.

The ceiling held. The rail held. Cate's grip on the rail held. She took another deep breath. Now for the hard part.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

_The Getting of the Key – For Queen and Country –Their Head for This – An Inspector Calls – Gateway Protocols – A Spanish Repeat – Collateral Damage – Countermeasures._

#

#

Adjusting her grip fractionally, Cate tried to regulate her breathing. This was going to take time and she knew, from experience, how far she could push herself. Mycroft might decry her previous physical pursuits as dangerous and excessive, but they would stand her in good stead now. Surveying the length of the rail above her head, Cate recognised she wasn't just up here for herself: the thought that Mycroft might have to answer for any miscalculation on her part simply meant there could be no failure. The wood creaked again, suggesting, perhaps that she'd better get a move on. The room below was deathly silent.

Crossing her ankles to reduce sway, Cate hauled herself methodically, hand-over-hand, towards the centre of the room. The finely-polished rail would have been problematic were it not for the fact that it was coated with God only knew how many years of congealed dust. Disgusting beneath her fingers, yet the increased traction was a definite bonus, and, given this little jaunt was more than forty feet of arduous effort, every little helped. Establishing a rhythm, Cate eventually slogged her way to the front curve of the U-shaped bar, but at a price. With her arms trembling and hands cramping, fine beads of moisture pearled her skin: she would need to rest somehow, and soon. The room began to echo with slight whispers.

In his seat several yards from the curve of the bar, Mycroft sat, focused entirely on Cate's efforts. The objectively rational part of his mind knew it should never have come to this, but another part of him had cheered silently for every foot she gained. Half of him wanted to end this, while the other wanted to stand up and applaud. He could see the cost to her, but he could also see she wasn't about to give up. He sighed quietly: it was redundant to berate himself. He had to accept that he'd fallen wildly in love with an adventurous woman who was quite capable of doing whatever she wanted, irrespective of his opinion. He found himself smiling at the thought. A pirate for a brother and a daredevil for a wife. _Dear God._

Finally, Cate had reached the far end of the wooden rail and was breathing deeply to try to quieten the protestations of her abused muscles. She could see the central pendulum's details clearly: it was about three feet away from where she was hanging. Too far to reach on one hand, besides, from what she could see, she'd need both hands to disconnect the key from the chain.

Studying the base of the pendulum as it attached to the ceiling, Cate noticed what looked like two square iron handles embedded deeply in the wood. They were invisible from the floor and could only be seen by someone with her vantage point. Cate took another deep breath and let go with her right hand.

This time, a collective gasp was clearly audible. As she hung in the air by her left hand, Cate swivelled around, feeling behind her head for one of the iron handholds. Brushing it with her fingertips, she grabbed on and jerked to ensure it wasn't about to fall out of its socket. As the trembling in her arms increased, she knew she didn't have the luxury of choice any more: her next move had to be sooner rather than later.

Releasing her other hand, she swung this one backwards as well, securing a hold on the second of the metal handles: almost immediately they were slippery with sweat.

There was a general twisting of necks as everyone in the room tried to see how in hell's name she hadn't yet fallen. How was she holding on?

Mycroft managed to preserve his outward composure, but internally, he felt as if he were poised on the brink of a cliff. Even from this distance, he could make out the subtle flickers in her upper arm and shoulder muscles as her body tried to release its burden of stress. Inhaling slowly, he frowned, his jaw tightening. Casting a look across at Kettering, he saw the man smirk and share some muttered comment with Hawker. They clearly expected Cate to fail, not to mention _fall_.

Now hanging with her back towards the dangling chain, Cate took a huge gulp of air, jacknifing her torso violently upwards, a grunt of serious effort escaping her lungs as she slid one leg over a deep loop of carving. Locking it into place with her other leg, she was at last able to release her grip and rest her arms, as she was now hanging upside down, with her eyes almost level with, and hands within reach of, the dangling links of metal.

The sheer bliss of allowing her arms to hang freely was unimaginable. Though she was upside-down, the sensation of circulation returning to her fingers was both delicious and excruciating. Shaking her wrists, Cate wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a few seconds to restore movement to her shoulders.

Below her, the sound-level had increased significantly. Even upside-down, Cate could see money changing hands. She wondered what odds she was getting. If they were more than 2/1, she'd be offended. Dusting off her hands, Cate prepared for the next objective._ Onwards and upwards_.

And the next objective was the chain. It looked revoltingly dirty and sticky, encrusted with accumulated years of cigar smoke and grease, but she stretched out and caught it in her fingertips, pulling the thing carefully upwards. It was heavy and rough, but a few seconds work and she was able to feel the key at the end. Unhooking it was an unwieldy exercise as it was also coated with years of muck. Finally hearing the small click as it slipped its fastening, Cate dropped the chain carefully down into place and fumbled the key into the back pocket of her jeans.

There was an immediate and rising swell of laughter and conversation below her now, with a growing number of voices adding to a feeling of success.

All she had to do was get back down without falling. But her arms were very tired and she still had some way to go before this was over.

Watching Cate manoeuvre herself into a hanging position had made his heart thud, but now Mycroft's pulse began to ease. This might be hard work for her, but he had a sense the worse was over. She made everything look relatively painless, and her agile shape managed to fit neatly around the mahogany coils above. The way she arched and curved herself … his heart suddenly chose to thud for an entirely different reason.

Placing her hands back on the iron handles, Cate released her legs and swung them down. As soon as she felt comfortable, she again let go with one of her hands and rotated her body, stretching backwards for the wooden rail she'd so recently given up. Repeating the movement with her other arm, Cate was now hanging freely. Reaching back, she retraced several of her earlier handholds until, looking down between her feet, she observed they were directly above the polished surface of the bar itself. _Nearly there._

At the last, and holding herself very still, Cate took a final breath and let go with both hands. Bending her knees, she landed on the bar with a soft thud. Somersaulting neatly forward to the floor, she came to rest with one knee slightly bent, her weary arms outstretched a little for balance. The entire exercise had taken less than five minutes.

The room was once again in silence as she padded over to Mycroft who stood, waiting. Looking into his face, Cate experienced the most wonderful sensation. He wasn't exactly smiling: his expression of understated but unqualified admiration was still one she would like to remember. She repressed the ridiculous grin starting to tug at her lips.

Holding up the key, "You wanted this, darling?" she asked, in a matter-of-fact voice. Wiping her hands on her jeans, Cate could no longer resist the urge. She beamed.

Mycroft said nothing, he just gazed into two jubilant brown eyes.

"I see the cleaning staff have been a little lax," his fingers brushed a streak of dust thoughtfully from her cheek. He had much more to say but the Diogenes was not, on consideration, the most appropriate place for the manner in which he wished to express himself.

Cate wrinkled her nose, still smiling.

Turning to stare at Kettering and Hawker, Mycroft's expression grew altogether cooler. "_Gentlemen_," he said, his tone less civil than the word normally merited. "There is the small matter of a debt to be settled?"

He turned back to Cate. "Entirely your prerogative, my love," he looked inquiring. "Your charity of choice?"

Still trying to rid her hands of the blackened grime, though about to give it up as a bad job, Cate looked thoughtful.

"I think CAMFED would be best," she said. Turning to face a calamitous Kettering. "It's an organisation devoted to the education of girls in Africa," she added. "So you'll have done something useful for once." Finally giving up on the ingrained muck, Cate allowed Mycroft to help her into her jacket.

"I'll have the car brought around," he said. "I'll take you home." Turning back to the wretched Hawker and Kettering. "Please ensure your continued absence from this Club begins this evening," he was impassive.

White-faced, Kettering looked at Cate as if she had told him he had six-months to live. "Apparently I owe you an apology," he muttered, half-infuriated, half-stupefied, entirely humiliated.

Cate was unimpressed. "No," she said. "You made me think Mycroft was seriously hurt, and no apology covers that," her voice was icy. "Hope we never cross paths again."

Turning away, Cate started to walk out of the room, only to stop when the applause began. Frowning, she looked around to see a massed regiment of grins. There were whistles now, and even some shouts. Her frown turned a little embarrassed.

"You've just shattered a long-established tradition, my sweet," Mycroft tried not to look overtly complacent. "Allow them a little accolade."

"Men are such silly creatures," Cate shook her head.

Taking her grimy fingers in his, her husband smiled benignly. "And yet still you marry us."

"Yes," she grinned at his expression. "Someone has to stop you from acting like lunatics."

Squeezing her hand, Mycroft led her down through the building and out to the waiting Jaguar.

"Home, James."

###

The ride home was quiet and mercifully brief. Entering, Cate realised she still didn't have all the details of what had just happened. Turning to ask, she felt an arm curve around her shoulders_, _bringing her close in a hurry.

"You are the most amazing … incredible … unbelievably brave … astonishing …" Mycroft's words of praise were delivered in a quietly controlled, almost analytical manner, but interwoven with kisses of increasing enthusiasm. Cate felt her head spin.

"Maddening … _amazing_ …" He pulled her jacket down her arms.

_"_You already said amazing," Cate didn't know whether to laugh or groan as his kisses became more purposeful and lingering. "Mycroft, I'm filthy; I really need a shower."

"I agree," he kissed her again, leisurely, lifting the cashmere sweater over her head_. "_You will need assistance with all that grime," he muttered, tracing her jaw line with his lips. "As a long-term representative of Her Majesty's Government, I believe I am empowered to undertake such a perilous mission."

Cate smiled. He wanted to play.

"Are you aware of the dangers?" she whispered_, _curving into his arms_._

"For Queen and Country," he replied. "No danger is too great."

"Have you had the requisite training?" Cate felt her voice weaken as his arms tightened, ensuring her closeness_._

"Masses of it," Mycroft groaned softly as he felt her shiver against him. "Fully qualified," his hand cradled the side of her head as he kissed her into turmoil. The t-shirt came away as easily as the rest.

"Are you armed?" Cate breathed.

"Dangerously so," his tone was dry but laughing.

"And you are fully committed to this course of action?' Cate was torn between laughing with him and gasping with the sensation of him. She closed her eyes in pleasure.

"To the _death_," he muttered, claiming her mouth as laughter turned to flame.

###

The next morning, pouring a second coffee for herself_, _Cate felt Mycroft's arms slide around her stomach, pulling her back against him.

"I'm fairly certain I could negotiate a substantial fee in camels if I sold you," he said, breathing into her freshly washed hair_._

"I doubt local bylaws permit more than one camel per household," she grinned, relaxing into his lean warmth. "Although I'm sure Mrs Compton could do a fine line in ungulate dining for you," she added. "Bactrian Bourguignon; Camel Cassoulet, _Dromedary Daal_. You'd never have to go out to a restaurant again," she turned in his arms_. "Ever_."

Mycroft shuddered. "You're safe for a while longer in that case," he rested his face in the crook of her neck. "I love you."

Cate pressed against his shirtfront. "And I am mad about a madman," she grinned into his chest. He tapped her on the head with something light.

Looking up, she saw the postman had been.

"You've got a red one," Mycroft tutted. "Unlike you to get one of these." He sat and opened his paper.

Cate scowled. It wasn't_ unlike_ her to get a red bill: she _never_ got a red bill. She freely acknowledged her pathological detestation of being late for anything – and paying her bills was included. As soon as one started to edge its way through the letterbox, she practically ripped it from the postman's grasp in order to go and pay the wretched thing. How on earth did she have an unpaid bill? When had the first one arrived?

A hazy memory surfaced of throwing envelopes into her bag. Dragging the leather satchel onto the table, she rummaged around until her fingers located the small bundle._ Damn_. There was more than one.

Throwing the pile onto the benchtop, she pulled the band off and spread them out on the counter. And there it was. Mycroft had brought it down with him to Deepdene and she'd entirely forgotten. Oh well; she could pay it right away. Cate thought she'd better check to ensure there were no other lurking horrors_._

One other bill due in a couple of days; some wine catalogue and a plain white envelope which looked like university stock. She tore the sealed flap.

"I have to go and pay this thing now or I'll be in a fit of guilt about it all day," she said to Mycroft. "Do you have anything that needs paying? I can do them all at the same …" she stopped. Her voice trailing away.

Mycroft looked up from his paper. Cate was staring down at a sheet of paper in her hand. Her face had paled and she seemed …

Dropping the newspaper, his expression sharpened. "What is it?"

She was still staring at the single page in her fingers, her forehead furrowed in – Mycroft immediately moved to her side. The expression on his wife's face was shock. Why? What had happened?

"Darling?" his fingers stroked the top of her spine_. _"What is it?"

Looking as if she had witnessed something dreadful, she handed him the single white sheet. He read.

**WHORE**.** I KNOW HOW YOU GOT YOUR NEW JOB.** **WHORE**.

Mycroft felt a coldness settle in his chest. He swallowed acid as he looked into Cate's face. She was dumbstruck. She was beyond the ability to form a cohesive sentence. Mycroft saw she had not reached the point of tears, but that would probably come. A rising scald of anger guttered through him, but he crushed it back: there was no place for it … yet.

"I will find out who sent this," he murmured softly. "And I will have their head for it."

"_Why_ …" Cate shook her head, looking for the right words. "Why would _anyone_ send this to me?" She blinked hard several times, staring blindly down at the granite counter.

Holding the sheet by a corner and picking up the envelope in an identical manner – even though he knew it probably made no difference now – Mycroft went to the pantry and dug out a large, self-sealing plastic bag. Returning, he placed the offensive articles on a shelf out of sight, and wrapped his arms around his wife. He held her tight. Very tight. His breath was warm against her skin.

"It's hate mail, Cate," he chose his words carefully. "It doesn't have to make sense because its sole purpose is to cause pain and distress_." _

Her face buried in his shoulder, Mycroft's familiar warmth and smell were comforting. On a logical level, she realised his words were quite reasonable and probably true. On an emotional level, she felt assaulted. But there was no point crying about it. Absolutely none. A sob dragged through her. Mycroft's arms closed even tighter as he held on while his wife's reaction took its course.

_Their head_. Whosever it was_. Their bloody head_.

###

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade hadn't seen much of the elder Holmes since his marriage to Professor Adin, although Scotland Yard's interactions with Sherlock gave him more-or-less regular updates. He was surprised, therefore, when Mycroft phoned him, requesting a meeting at his home. Such an arrangement suggested it was both serious and private.

"What's up, Mycroft?" Lestrade took the cup of tea Cate brought him.

Turning to his wife, Mycroft raised an eyebrow_._

Shaking her head, Cate sat back and looked bleak_._

Passing over a transparent plastic bag containing a single sheet of paper and an opened envelope, Mycroft's expression was unpleasant.

"Someone sent Cate a vile message," he said shortly, nodding at the bag. "I want to know who is responsible and make it impossible for them to do it again."

Taking great care to touch only the top left corner, Lestrade pulled the folded paper out of the plastic. The single line of text was brutal and unambiguous. The Inspector looked displeased and he shook his head in disgust.

"Do you have any idea who could have sent this to you?" he asked. "Anyone who might have a grudge, some reason to want to upset you_?"_

"Nobody who would do this," Cate waved her hand at the bag. "I honestly cannot imagine anyone I know sending me this … this_ thing_," she shook her head.

"It appears to be the same type of paper used commonly in the photocopiers around the university," Mycroft sniffed. "The writing is laser-printed and undistinguished, but the lettering on the envelope is by hand, and the work of a man."

"How do you know it's a man?" Lestrade recalled Sherlock telling him once that Mycroft was one of the most dangerous people he'd ever meet. By the expression on the man's face, Lestrade reckoned he was about to find out.

"Any student of graphology can identify the six key elements in a writing-hand," Mycroft sounded wearied. "A man wrote the address on the envelope."

"I'm sorry to have to ask this, Cate," Lestrade looked a little uncomfortable_. _"Are there any men in your past or … present," he looked sympathetically across at Mycroft, "who might want to cause you trouble?"

"There's at least one," Mycroft looked sour. "His name's David Swift and he's a Professor at Cate's university," he took a slow breath. "They used to be lovers."

With a resigned look on her face, Cate leaned across in the sofa to reach Mycroft's hand. He felt tense.

"I really don't think David would do such a thing," she said. "He might argue with me, he might not even like me very much now, but he's never shown any indication of being malicious like this."

"Do you have his contact details, or should I reach him through the university?" Lestrade noted Cate's comments.

"He's got a flat in Islington," she said. "Unless he's moved recently, but I wouldn't know his current number, I'm afraid."

"And is there anyone else at all that you can think of who might resent you, especially in the university," he nodded, "since this certainly seems to be based around a workplace complaint."

Cate shook her head. "Honestly," she said, "I can't think of anyone I know who would do this."

"Inspector," Mycroft leaned forward, his voice quiet. "I have invited your involvement in this because I would like the individual for this act apprehended and dealt with appropriately, _however_," he said, pausing, "I am well aware that you have many calls on your time, which is why I will be conducting my own investigation."

Lestrade looked thoughtful. "And you're telling me this because ..?"

"Because any act against my wife is an act against _me_," the simple words held ominous echoes. "And the person responsible for this will shortly discover the dangers inherent in meddling with the British Government, before they are handed over to you._ Unless_," he added, "you find them first." Mycroft sat back. "In which case I would ask that, as a favour, I am permitted a few minutes conversation with them," he said. "_Alone_."

Narrowing his eyes, the Inspector looked meditative. It would be counterproductive to hamper the activities of Mycroft's department, not to mention insane to cross the man himself. Plus, whoever got to the culprit first, the police would still end up with a collar. And keeping Mycroft on-side meant possible future favours …

"_Deal_," he said. "But no violence, or the arrangement's off."

Squeezing Cate's fingers gently between his own. Mycroft Holmes smiled a little smile. "I am not a violent man, Inspector," he said calmly.

Lestrade gave him a seriously knowing look. "But you employ violent men."

Blinking slowly, Mycroft opted for silence_._

"That's what I thought," Lestrade looked sour.

Sighing, Mycroft looked frustrated. "I do not expect there to be violence," he said. "I'll make sure my people are aware of your … request."

"Right, then." The Inspector slipped the plastic bag in his pocket. "I'll keep you informed of any progress."

When Greg Lestrade had left, Cate wrapped her arms about Mycroft's middle. "I don't want to hear about any violence in this," she clarified. "It's not worth it."

Mycroft smiled down at her serious expression. "Of course not, my love," he hugged her gently to his chest. His voice was warm, but his eyes were cool and calculating. He'd make a point of ensuring that nobody heard of any violence whatsoever.

###

"And we go to live test now." Elly Ibarra pressed the final key which initiated the user-testing phase of system CATE. It had been a hectic last couple of weeks, but she had triple-checked the final program commands and control hierarchies only this morning, and neither she nor Bobby – nor any of the other, more established, more critical, specialists – could see an obvious flaw. This was not to say such things were absent, but that they were well-hidden and would only be revealed during a live user-test. Which is where they were right now. Swallowing her nervousness, Ibarra checked all the server and subnet indicators. All networked drives were online. All lights were green. Good: at least the system hadn't been roundly rejected by the server – although Elly hadn't imagined for a moment that it would have gone down quite so soon.

The next stage was to begin integration. Bobby had written programs that would essentially mimic, overlay and expand upon current security protocols, so that, at the very least, the system would add to extant safeguards and offer reinforcement to current defensive protocols. Assuming they proceeded to a full system-implementation of CATE, much of the old system would be retired. It was simply too easy to crack.

Nodding across at the young Bobby, whose happy little smile told a story of its own, Elly readied the system for Stage One Testing: The Gateway Test, or, as Bobby called it, the 'Knock Knock Joke'. The joke was that anyone who knocked without first having declared and demonstrated their integrity, would have their application for entry first frozen, then interrogated and finally zapped. If anything were found to be amiss even at this initial stage, alerts would automatically be issued to a variety of security-based services with appropriate responses already dialled-in.

"Ready with SOT 1," Ibarra made the Gateway protocols live.

Turning to her young partner-in-crime, Elly took a deep breath. She had no idea what Bobby had cooked up for the tests; he'd only said it would be a good test. Elly believed him. In Bobby's world, 'good' usually meant 'lethal'.

"SOT 1, test 1," Bobby grinned. _Fun time_. He sent the first virus through. It was a doozy. Having written it himself, he knew it was a good one.

Eagle-eyed, Elly - and everyone else in the room – watched as CATE first acknowledged, then challenged, then warned, then eviscerated the incoming query. It all happened so fast, several people weren't sure anything had happened at all. Did the system glitch already?

Her heart beating at a eye-watering rate, Elly sucked in a sharp breath and prepared for the next incoming_._

"S1T 1, test 1A," Bobby let rip with another virus – this one disguised as an email; almost exactly identical to the hack-probe that started this entire situation.

CATE repeated her protocols: acknowledge; challenge; warn; destroy. _Perfect_.

"S1T 1, test 1B." Bobby wrinkled his forehead. What would CATE do with this one?

Acknowledge; Challenge; Warn_; _Isolate_; Accept_. This one was friendly, disguised as hostile. CATE was looking pretty good.

"S1T 1, test 1C."

_Acknowledge; Challenge; Warn … Query_ … Isolate; _Hold_. Bobby clapped his hands together. He'd made this look like an incoming from MI6, incidentally carrying a hostile. CATE was asking what she should do with it: destroy or return_?_

Grinning, Elly selected the respond function, jokingly nicknamed 'Return to sender'. Immediately, CATE set about stripping the incoming program of all identifying denotations and reversing the 'send' protocols. It went galloping back towards MI6's server in an instant.

"_Oops_." Elly made a face, then shrugged. MI6 would probably never notice they'd just been infiltrated by a fake message.

"S1T 1, test 1D."

Acknowledge; Challenge; Warn; Destroy: Advise; _Retaliate_.

Bobby's eyes went wide and his grin achieved incandescence.

Mycroft was momentarily at a loss. "What just happened?"

Ibarra swivelled in her seat. "CATE found a hostile, and, after recording the salient features of the incoming attack, destroyed it, sent out a reverse worm to infiltrate the originating server, co-opted and terminated all attack from that particular source." She smiled happily. "CATE just picked its pocket, stole its sweeties and kicked its arse," she said. "_Jefe_."

Mycroft nodded his approval. "Keep testing," he directed. "I want no flaws, no weaknesses."

###

"Then why not have it right here in London?" Cate was chairing a meeting which was attempting to reconvene senior university staff meant to resolve issues at the Bilbao conference. "We have the resources; we can ensure security, everyone can get here," she pointed out. "So why not here?"

"Is it going to be possible to make the arrangements in time to meet this quarter's results?" Ruth Howells asked. She sounded sceptical. "It's a big ask to get that many Panjandrums together in such a short time."

Cate nodded. She knew exactly what Ruth meant. However, Cate felt she might have an edge. "I think I can do it," she nibbled her lower lip. "A few of those people owe me a little favour," she added.

"Favours?" Ruth was interested. It never hurt to massage the way of things at the highest levels. "Why?" she asked. "Did something happen to you during that dreadful affair?"

Shaking her head and smiling, Cate wrinkled her nose. "I just helped a few people in a difficult spot," she said. "But if I can use any good will they might have …"

Using an internal phone, Cate called her Admin. "Do we still have the Bilbao contact list sent out by the convenors?" she said. "Are there emails or a Jabber ID?"

Apparently, there were all manner of contact details. _Excellent_.

"Right then," Cate nodded at Ruth. "Please send out an email to all of potential attendees of the Executive enclave that the University of London may be prepared to re-host the Spanish conference right here in London in …" she raised her eyebrows at Ruth. "Two weeks, if everyone is willing to agree to such short notice." Cate had another little think. "And make it clear that we are still calling it the Bilbao Conference," she finished.

Ruth frowned.

"Keeps the Universidad happy; makes us look magnanimous, and we get less resistance," Cate grinned. Clearly Mycroft's strategising was having an effect on her.

Looking less than convinced, Dr Howells nevertheless nodded her acquiescence. "I better get a move on with the details, in that case," she said. "Assuming anyone responds in the positive to your invitation."

Once she was by herself, Cate sighed heavily. Trying to carry on normally, let alone with any real enthusiasm was increasingly hampered by the recurring question of who sent the letter? It must be someone here at the university – everything pointed this way. But who could know her and say such a thing? Shaking her head, Cate frowned before turning to her computer and looking at dates and times and places. If she was actually going to get the conference reconvened, she better have all her ducks in a row.

###

Sherlock was still in his dressing-gown and the floor was strewn with the day's papers. John had pretty much given up trying to maintain any kind of order when he was in one of his moods, so he just sat by the table and focused on updating his blog.

"You can't mention Spain," Sherlock muttered, looking over his shoulder. "Mycroft doesn't want anything to do with Cate being put online."

"I hadn't planned to mention Spain at all," he said calmly. "I was going to write an entry about your unusual cross-indexing techniques," he added, staring balefully at the invisible carpet. "Really, Sherlock. You could make an effort to be a little more methodical in your attempts to wring every last nuance from the papers."

"_Ah_, John," Sherlock waltzed around the room. "Linear thinking is the death-rattle of the intellect."

There was a distinctive ring of the doorbell. Too long to be a client; to obtrusive to be a stranger, too precise to be a casual acquaintance.

_Mycroft_.

Throwing himself into his chair, Sherlock steepled his fingers. What did his brother want now, he wondered. There had been no obvious fallout after the Bilbao affair; nothing in the papers, and he had been checking assiduously as the floor attested. Cate was quite recovered. He shrugged. It must be some mundane government issue. Nothing to get excited about, then. He stretched out in the padded leather and closed his eyes.

"_Sherlock_." Mycroft Holmes looked around the sitting room of 221B with a faint air of amusement. "John," he added, nodding an acknowledgement.

"_Mycroft_." Sherlock's eyes flickered open. "What do you want this time?"

Taking John's usual chair, Mycroft examined his umbrella.

"Do you remember," he said, "when you were at university and your Physics professor laid a complaint against you of aggravated harassment?"

Sherlock snorted. "Of course," he laughed softly. "An imbecile who deserved to be outed as the imposter he was."

"Scarcely an imposter, Sherlock: the man was simply terrified of you." Mycroft looked faintly reproving.

"Nevertheless," Sherlock assumed an aloof expression. "In any case, what does a defrocked professor of physics have to do with your visit this morning?"

Mycroft looked thoughtful. "Your actions, regardless of rationale, were effective in shaking up the entire university science department."

Sherlock nodded, wondering where this was going.

"You instilled fear and dread in a great many people at the time."

"Collateral damage," Sherlock made a face. "Regrettable, but couldn't be avoided."

Mycroft nodded, understanding. "Want to do it again?"

###

Bobby was very excited. Stage Two Testing was about to start. SOT had gone like a canoe on wet grass, but this next stage was crucial to the actual ongoing operations. He knew Elly was worried about this part, and that all the other program designers didn't think that CATE was going to work.

Ibarra took a very deep breath. Stage Two: Countermeasures. This is where CATE would prove her worth or not. If the system could not effectively deal with a serious threat-incursion, then the work was wasted and she and Bobby would be looking for another job. Readying everything she could possibly prepare, Elly nodded at her programming partner.

"S2T 1, test 1," she announced, her finger hovering over the initiate key.

And everything went crazy. Screens flashing, lights dimming, systems slamming down left and right.

"What the _bloody hell _have you done, _Ibarra_?" The Head of IS screamed as he ran between terminals, attempting to locate the problem or problems and shut them down before the entire network was compromised.

Elly was in shock. Not because she had made a mistake, but because she hadn't pressed the initiate key.

This wasn't a problem with CATE, she realised.

It was another attack.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter Eight**

_Sherlock Begins – A Charm Offensive – CATE Gets Real – Finessing a Conference – Away From All This – The Holmes Gambit – The Strongest Piece – An Invitation – Back to Square One._

_#_

_#_

"Clearly a man's hand," Sherlock threw the sheet of paper down.

"Of course," Mycroft rubbed his eyes, weary. It had been an exceptionally difficult few days. "That much is obvious to anyone who cares to look. I expected a little more, Brother mine."

"Educated," Sherlock added, ignoring the criticism. "Look at the angle of the hyphen."

"We may assume it's a member of the university staff?" Mycroft was inquiring. "Academic or administrative?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful. "Could be either," he said. "However, I am leaning to the academic side of the operations for the simple fact that he's used capital letters – apart from engineering specialists, how many academics have legible writing?"

"Cate's is pretty awful when she's in a hurry," Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Assuming you're correct, this is pointing towards a very specific individual."

Lifting his eyes, Sherlock offered a slight smile. "Time to find out, then."

###

John was smiling an unusually amiable smile as he made himself known to the lady at the main reception desk. His expression was engaging and pleasant and – he had been told – _boyish_. Not sure whether a forty-year-old man should consider boyishness an exploitable attribute, John nevertheless gritted his teeth and prepared to launch a charm-offensive.

"_Hello_," he said, turning the charisma up to full-beam. "Thinking about applying to do a PhD," he added. "Can you tell me anything about it?" The middle-aged woman behind the desk smiled back and looked helpful.

"Of course," she smiled and nodded. "What's your discipline?"

_"Discipline_?" John wasn't entirely sure what he was getting into.

"The field of your study?" the woman offered_**. **_"Your proposed topic?"

"Ah," John grinned in a slightly hyper fashion and held up a finger. Digging into his pocket, he extracted a folded piece of paper. He opened it. It was blank. He made a face, looked apologetic and dug around in the other pocket. Rummaging around, his features became increasingly desperate. He placed a briefcase on the counter and clicked open the latches. It was crammed with papers.

The woman sighed wearily. These new candidates … thoughts of piss-ups and breweries flitted through her mind. She waited as John began what was to be an ongoing and ultimately fruitless search for his research proposal.

Smiling quietly at his friend's efforts in prevarication and distraction, Sherlock slipped silently around the side of the receptionist's station and into the private office beyond. Seating himself at the desk, Sherlock logged onto the university's mainframe system. He had thought he might have to break in, but the receptionist had most considerately been part way through a letter to a student about a mutual definition of 'attendance' and all he had to do was flick over to the staff pages and online diaries. Most academics and senior staff maintained an electronic diary these days, although there were still a few Luddites such as Cate who preferred the traditional hard-copies on their desk. He noticed though, that even she had an abbreviated electronic version now: probably a requirement of her new job that she make her personal diary available to senior staff.

His mouth twitched into a brief smile: she must find that delightful.

It was the act of a moment to select all the diaries for the last six-months and hit the 'copy' key. The memory-stick he'd inserted was sufficiently large to take all this data and more, so he went looking for any other interesting snippets that might be of interest_**. **Hmmm_. Staff pages; links to staff blogs; an annual leave calendar. Within three minutes of inserting the USB, Sherlock brushed past John as he swept towards the main entrance.

Giving up the search for the fabled research proposal, John smiled ingratiatingly at the, by now, semi-comatosed receptionist, made his apologies and promised to return when he had located the alleged item.

"So: get anything useful?" John threw the case into the back seat of the cab.

"Found several items which might prove valuable," Sherlock looked faintly pleased.

"Such as?"

Holding the tiny memory stick between his index-finger and thumb, the younger Holmes looked contemplative. "Think I might be able to prove who wrote the envelope, which will give us a starting point for our questioning."

"We're going to be questioning university people? Won't Cate object?" John was dubious.

"Would you rather Mycroft did the questioning?"

John looked thoughtful. "Perhaps not the best of alternatives," he conceded. "Is Cate aware of any of this?"

"Knowing Mycroft," Sherlock was reflective, "he won't deny it if she asks him, but neither will he volunteer the information."

"I don't know if that's good," John shook his head. "Not sure Cate is the type of person who'd accept that," he paused. "Not even from Mycroft."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Oh, to be a fly on the wall for _that_ conversation," he snorted.

"Do you think they're happy?" John sounded introspective. "I mean," he said, "I'm still coming to terms with the fact that Mycroft found someone who'd consider him husband material."

"The signs suggest he's happy," Sherlock observed. "However, one would be foolish to measure my brother's wellbeing by conventional standards."

"Signs?" John was curious. "For instance?"

Turning to his friend, Sherlock looked pitying. "For instance," he said. "When was the last time Mycroft visited 221B after eight in the evening?"

John considered. It had been months. "That's a sign?"

"Think it through, John." Sherlock looked long-suffering and waited for his friend to catch up.

"_Ah_," John said, thinking it through. "Really?"

Facing forward, Sherlock said nothing, but his lips twitched. Observing this, John smiled too._ Newlyweds_.

###

It had taken Mycroft less than eight minutes to return to his office following the alert that there had been a second attack. The office was in system-lockdown when he arrived; screens down; several of his people staring into blinking lights on dark backgrounds. One or two just sitting, looking blank. This did not bode well.

"_Damage_?" he demanded.

Asif Rao, Head of Information Systems, looked up and sighed quietly.

"Some," he said. "But not as bad as it might have been." His bottom lip jutted out. "My first thought was that Ibarra's new programs had run amok," he explained, "but it became obvious that the second stage of tests hadn't been initiated."

"What's lost?" Mycroft waited for the bad news.

"A couple of the less sensitive databases have had their access protocols corrupted," Rao said. "The secondary scanning interface that locks into the CCTV network looks like it might need a complete overhaul, and the interchange between Interpol and our own Red list froze for about five minutes."

"That's all?" Mycroft was astounded. "The attack claimed nothing else? Nothing at all?"

Raising his eyebrows, Rao looked unapologetic. "I decided to let CATE's Gateway protocols go live," he said. "Nothing we had was going to stop this thing, especially since it had already accessed the mainframe databases." The HoD made a small moue. "Seemed like a reasonable idea, and," he smiled fractionally. "And itworked."

"Show me," Mycroft's expression sharpened, becoming interrogative and judicial.

Walking into the main server-room, Rao pointed to Elly Ibarra and Bobby, side-by-side, running, what looked like comparative systems analyses. So engrossed in their esoteric conversation, Mycroft's presence didn't register.

"Then everything's clear?" Ibarra had her chin in her hands, staring at the nearest screen. "I'm not sure I believe it."

Bobby shrugged. Pointing to a small peak in a track of white against a dark background, he shrugged again, as if the screen said everything needed to be said.

"Ms Ibarra," Mycroft made his presence known. "Your program would appear to be successful."

"Apparently so, Sir," Elly looked up from the screen, tapping a thumbnail against her lower lip.

"You seem unsure." Scanning the rest of the screens in the office, Mycroft searched for anything that would suggest an opposing opinion.

"Just a little surprised that it worked so well,_**" **_Ibarra looked thoughtful. "It pays never to assume in this business."

Smiling to himself, Mycroft found himself once again in accord with Lestrade's demand for the 'right' people. "When can we test CATE's final stages?"

Meeting his gaze, Ibarra seemed optimistic. "Anytime you like, Sir," she said. "Now that we know the Gateway protocols work successfully in a live environment, it's a smaller matter to test the subsequent stages." Elly paused, thinking. "We can probably have the Countermeasures stage tested and emplaced by tomorrow, if everything goes to plan."

"And the final phase?" Mycroft was particularly interested in the last stage of CATE's facility. _Retaliation_. The desire for effective retribution burned compellingly in Mycroft's heart. He wanted this program to work if only to afford some productive response to these attacks. The inability to respond in any meaningful way had tried him sorely. He wanted scalps.

Grinning conspiratorially, Ibarra's expression became altogether malevolent. "Once the first three stages are in-synch," she nodded, thinking, "Bobby and I can have the final box of tricks online very quickly."

Mycroft nodded briefly. "Soon as you can."

###

Cate had a phone in one hand, a mouse in the other, and was participating in at least two simultaneous, over-the-shoulder conversations with staff in her office. It was nearly four and she'd been at this the entire day. She felt drained.

"Can we have it for next Friday?" she asked across to her left, typing a list of names into an email she would shortly send to the university security people. These were the visitors who had already confirmed and booked accommodation in and around the Gower Street campus.

"Are the Germans coming?" she swung around to the person on her other side. "If they say it's too short notice, tell them they can run one of the key sessions as long as they can book in today," Cate grinned. "They'll say 'yes'," she took a silent breath, turning back to the phone at her right ear. "Mrs Jarwell I _assure _you," Cate soothed. "The VC has signed off on the consumables costs for the entire four days." Rolling her eyes, Cate was desperate for a cup of tea. It felt like years since she'd been able to stop and catch her breath. Finally resolving the great drama of conference provisioning, Cate put the phone down.

The London conference, fast becoming known as the 'Spanish Alternative', or, as coined by some anonymous wag, 'Bilbao Beggins'; was demanding her every waking moment. It would be a relief when she could hand it all over to the admin experts and simply be one of the conference delegates. Cate's mobile rang yet again. Sighing, she wondered what was about to go wrong this time.

"Hello," she answered, a little wearily. "Cate Adin-Holmes."

"_Hello, Professor_." Her smile was sudden. Mycroft's voice was more than usually welcome.

"_Darling_," Cate snuggled the phone closer between her ear and shoulder. "Want to take me away from all this?"

"Say the word," he was entirely accommodating. "Where would you like me to take you?"

"How about somewhere with warm music and cold champagne," she rubbed her eyes. "After the day I've had organising this damn conference," she added, "I deserve a reward."

"I think that can be arranged," Mycroft was smiling; she could hear it in his voice. "I'll have the car pick you up in … half-an-hour?"

Cate looked at her desk; her request hadn't been terribly serious, and there was still a pile of things she needed to finalise. Time was running very short: there was too much to do. She couldn't.

"Sounds perfect," she stretched her legs out under her desk, enjoying the feel of muscles that hadn't been used for hours. "Where are we going?"

Mycroft wouldn't be drawn. "See you very soon," he sounded pleased.

Cate shook her head, smiling again. For someone so incredibly self-controlled and measured, her husband enjoyed surprising her with unexpected little pleasures.

In a final flurry of activity, she managed to clear the majority of the remaining issues in the next twenty-five minutes, vowing to complete the rest first thing in the morning. Grabbing her jacket and briefcase, Cate ran down the stairs, not wanting to wait the extra few minutes for the lift to arrive. Mycroft's Jaguar was already parked, his driver peering out the side window until he spotted her. He started the engine.

Throwing her bag and coat into the back seat, Cate quickly followed. She wasn't alone. Anthea sat on the far side.

"_Hi_." The very attractive brunette had an easy smile and an open gaze. Knowing Mycroft's preference for cleverness and stealth, Cate held no doubts as to the younger woman's likely abilities, regardless of the ingenuous façade.

"Hello, Anthea," Cate kicked her shoes off and wiggled her toes. "I am so glad to be out of there today." Raking fingers through her hair, she turned to look into a pair of dark eyes.

"So what has he arranged?" Cate grinned. Trying to decipher Mycroft's plans before they eventuated was part of the fun. Cate hadn't managed it yet, although she'd come close on a couple of occasions. "Or are you not allowed to say?"

"Nothing, _really_," Anthea's Sloan Square accent was clear despite her minimal conversation. "You know what he's like," she paused. "This is for you." Handing over an old-fashioned hotel room key, Mycroft's assistant looked amused. There was no name on the key tag, only the number '3'. Cate smiled a little as she rubbed the engraved digit between her fingertips: Mycroft knew she held a foolish preference this number and it already represented several things between them.

The Jaguar came to a halt outside an unpretentious Victorian structure. Farewelling Anthea, Cate walked through an inconspicuous entrance, leaving the daylight sun for the dimness of an artificially-lit lobby. The soft strains of Bach provided a suitable backdrop to panelled oak walls, deep carpeting and gloriously-framed oils. An intriguing place. Hotel? Private club? _Bordello_? Looking around, Cate wondered if she was supposed to go and find someone, or wait, but her thoughts were interrupted by a young man who smiled and beckoned. She followed, finding herself at the end of a corridor. Her guide waved her onwards, and as each solid wooden door bore a number, it wasn't difficult to work out the next step.

Standing in front of number three, Cate smiled again, wondering what she'd find. Inserting the large key and pushing the heavy oak open, she stepped inside a bower of canopies, tapestries and swags of velvet and silk, the richness of Sicilian baroque forming an undisturbed cocoon of hushed luxury. Cate noted some rather over-the-top, almost rococo, furnishings, including gilt-mirrored sideboards and a carapaced bed. In the midst of such divine things, in isolated splendour and flanking a small occasional table, stood a pair of high-backed, deeply shadowed chairs. As she closed the door behind her, Mycroft stood from one of them, reaching over to pour two flutes of Mumm. He had done it again, Cate's eyes crinkled as she grinned her delight. How on earth did he manage to _find_ these places?

"_Darling_," he held out a glass.

Clinking her crystal to his, Cate sipped the chill fizz and stepped close, looking into his face.

"_My love_," her words were gentle as she considered his dark blue gaze. He filled her eyes. She simply couldn't help the smile that curved her mouth.

Looking down at her, Mycroft felt a profound sense of quietude ease through his veins. He had no idea exactly what it was Cate did to him, but she managed it without design or, apparently, conscious effort. She unravelled him and he prized the fact. Trailing fingertips down the side of her face, he combed them through her hair, instinctively bringing her closer as he leaned down. His kiss was soft and lingering.

Cate's pulse escalated as her husband's mouth parted her lips slowly, kissing her with a meticulous intensity. Her heart thudded almost painfully as the crystal was taken from her fingers and she was drawn against him. Mycroft's long fingers cradled her head as he kissed her, carefully and delicately into breathless immobility.

As Cate shivered beneath his hands, eyes closed, relishing their intimacy, Mycroft felt his own heart rate climb; his emergent desire a delectable counterpoint to the idea which guided his actions this afternoon. His breathing refused to remain equable; a barely audible groan escaped his chest as she rested against him, responding to his touch with a faint tremor. Unbidden, a gripping wave of desire to have her skin smooth against his, to be engulfed by her heat, parched his throat. The sudden urge to wrap her in his arms, to hear his name turn from sighed endearment to screamed plea, wrenched him nearly senseless with want.

But this was not his plan. Not yet.

Reluctantly, he stepped away, watching her eyelids flutter open, her eyes unfocussed. Finding everything about her to be pulse-thumpingly desirable, he reviewed his intention, almost to the point of changing his mind. This was unduly testing.

Taking her hand, he drew Cate to one of the chairs. A little bemused, she looked the question at him. He smiled at her curious face, as, seating Cate in one chair, he took the other. On the small table between them was an old, and somewhat ornate, chess set. Watching his wife regain her equanimity, Mycroft wondered afresh how he had managed to win such a woman: playful; passionate; challenging. Experiencing a swift spike of privilege; he realised his case was patently hopeless: she had but to ask and he would lay his world at her feet. He wondered how she would react to his idea.

"I want to teach you how to play," he said, a subtle turn to his lips.

Clearing her throat and managing finally to focus on the board between them, Cate raised her brows. "_Chess_?"

"Yes. Chess."

"I know how to play." A faint frown.

"You know how to move the pieces, my sweet," Mycroft demurred. "Not the same thing."

"You want to teach me how to play chess?" Cate sat back into her chair, accepting her glass from him a second time. Looking at her over steepled fingers, he said nothing, but observed the evaluation in his wife's expression. Remaining impassive, he watched each thought as it crossed, unspoken, through Cate's mind. She wasn't sure, but neither had she objected.

"Why?" she said.

"For selfish reasons."

"Selfish?"

"I want the pleasure of teaching you something you don't already know."

As Cate sat, considering his suggestion, Mycroft sipped champagne. He had wanted to do this for some time – not the least because he enjoyed the game and wanted a more regular opponent. He also felt that, once she had mastered a few basic gambits and strategies, it would actually be an enjoyable experience to play his wife. To be involved in sharing this with Cate would, he anticipated, be rather agreeable. Additionally, the notion of teaching her something she was not about to learn anywhere else projected a tantalising gratification: he wanted to be the one person in her life who gave her this knowledge. It would be he alone who initiated her skills. The idea appealed to him; excited him, even. He knew precisely why this was so, but the effect was undiminished.

"You realise my standards are very high," Cate stated, looking over her glass. "If we do this, then we do it properly."

Mycroft kept his expression unchanged, but smiled inwardly. "I would expect nothing less," he refreshed their drinks.

"Where would we start?" Cate watched fine bubbles rising up through the pale wine.

A spark of satisfaction. "What do you know of the game?" he asked.

Taking a deep breath, she sat back, inspecting her memory. "It's about war," she said. "A battlefield in microcosm." Cate tasted her champagne. "Isn't it?"

Mycroft held up a King. "The most important piece," he said, "but not the most powerful piece."

"The Queen," Cate selected the black Queen, sliding her fingers caressingly down its solid, elegant lines. "Is the most powerful." A knowing smile. "As is right and proper."

Mycroft was amused. That his wife naturally identified with the potent female piece was no surprise. "Also known historically as the _General_," he said, looking at her sideways.

"Which piece do you find the most attractive?" Cate asked, curiously. "It wouldn't be the King," she mused, thinking. "That's not your style, nor is the King sufficiently powerful, although," Cate smiled teasingly at him across the board. "I can imagine you as a King."

"While I cannot imagine you as anything but that." Mycroft nodded at the piece she still held in her fingers: The Black Queen.

"You haven't said which piece you prefer," she waggled her empty glass. "Not the King, surely?" Cate paused, thinking. "Bishop?"

With an arch look in his eyes, Mycroft reached over and picked up the white Queen. "Also known as the _Schah_," he murmured, holding the heavy carved piece up, critically scrutinising the detail and heft of the thing. "Not so much a warrior as a thinker," he replaced the figure on the board. "The Persians used to call it the _Firzan_, advisor to the king, until the Spanish got hold of the game in the fifteenth century and changed the sex to keep Isabella happy."

"So the Queen is really the King's advisor and is, in actuality, a male?" Cate looked decidedly unimpressed.

"It's still the strongest piece," Mycroft all but laughed at her sudden disenchantment.

"And I still prefer the black one," Cate grinned again, placing her favourite carefully down in the appropriate square.

"Just as I have a partiality for her white counterpart," he smiled agreeably. This boded well for his idea. A potential dual between the two strongest pieces on the board was more than he had anticipated.

Cate lowered her eyes as she thought through his proposition. "So you want to teach me how to fight?" she looked up, candidly. "You want me to fight you?"

"_Battle_, my darling," Mycroft sipped his wine. "Not fight. I would never wish that." His smile was innocent. His gaze was otherwise.

"On the contrary, my love," she said, slowly. "I rather think you might," Cate put her glass down on the table and looked at him, her eyes introspective and faintly sceptical. "I think you want me to fight you; I think the idea intrigues you just the tiniest little bit." She stood and walked around to his chair, leaning her hands on its arms either side of him. She stared down into his face. "Am I wrong?"

Mycroft was silent. Cate had a look in her eye that suggested she was up to something. Keeping her gaze linked to his, slowly, _slowly_, she leaned into him, placing one knee on the seat between his thighs. She was very close. He could feel her breath against his skin; the aromatic earthy fragrance of her perfume was all around him. Mycroft took a sharp breath as his muscles contracted involuntarily. Cate was so close to him now that as she moved even further forward, he leaned back to maintain eye-contact.

She kissed him hard on the mouth, pushing him back against the chair, taking him a little by surprise as she claimed a dominant role. Bringing her fingers up to hold him close as she explored him, teasing him, she sighed softly against his lips. As he lifted his hands to pull her closer, Cate pushed his wrists back down to the chair: with no hope of keeping him unmoving by force, her action was more symbolic than confining. She kissed him again, hungrily, demandingly.

Mycroft's chest pounded. All notions of chess disappeared as his earlier desire blasted back through him. Perhaps she was right, he reflected, shifting his balance to pull her down in his arms, her mouth suddenly soft and deliciously defenceless beneath his own. Perhaps the idea of fighting with her was exciting. But right now, he really wasn't thinking about war.

###

A single keystroke and the email was sent out to all on the list. When each of these people next opened their university email, they would see a message. To all but one, it would appear to have been sent in error. To the author of the hate-mail, it would be an invitation. Flicking his fingers, Sherlock sat back and waited. It wouldn't be long. John would be waiting too.

###

David Swift stared at his computer screen in abject confusion. He had simply thought to clear up any email backlog before heading home, only to find the oddest message waiting for him from an unrecognised Hotmail account. "_Got your note. Think we need to discuss this. A-H_." Clearly this was from Cate, but what note? Then he remembered the envelope. Did she think he had sent her a note?

Dialling her internal office number, there was no reply. He no longer knew her mobile number, so there was nothing for it. Scooping a pile of loose papers from his desk into a briefcase, Professor Swift left his room and headed to Cate's floor.

Watching from a convenient corner, John nodded to himself. It seemed that Sherlock had been right again: stepping lightly, he followed the tall academic at a distance.

Arriving outside Cate's office in the English building. Swift knocked and waited. Having no response, John watched the man knock again, before trying the door handle. It was unlocked. Opening Cate's office, Swift stuck his head through, looking around the room to ensure its emptiness. Ascertaining her absence, he withdrew, closing the door behind him, a small shrug lifting his shoulders. As the lift doors closed behind him, John took to the stairs, arriving at the ground floor just after Swift had exited the building, heading towards the street.

It had just begun to rain: the decorative cobbled street greasy with the first light sprinkles. Watching his target, John observed the man head immediately north along the road, a clear goal in his mind. Following at a discrete distance, both men crossed the road at an intersection in clear view of the main entrance. Catching sight of someone in the sheltered doorways, Swift stopped abruptly, lifting a hand in the air, he shouted, "_Hi_!" His quarry either didn't hear, or ignored him.

"_Hey, about that envelope _…" Stepping back across the intersection with the clear intention of speaking with the individual, Swift hadn't looked for traffic. With the green light in its favour, the minicab tore through the junction just as David Swift stepped directly in its path. Even then, had the road been dry, the accident might have been avoided, but as it was, John's shouted warning was too late to be of any use. Running over to the crumpled body lying limp at the curb, it was obvious to John, even had he not been a doctor, that Swift was quite dead.

Looking back towards the main entrance, John saw several people emerging through the doors, but he had no clue at whom Swift had shouted. Back to square one.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter Nine**

_Turning CATE On – Beware, My Love – Pizza and Beer – A Colleague's Asking – Casus Belli – Beginning Her Defence – Take Care With the Answers – The Black Queen – _Check and Mate – Not Just Any Perfume.

#

#

"And CATE goes live in _three ..._ _two_ … _one_ …" Elly Ibarra ran the countdown for the new configuration of access and protection protocols as she hit the final key to bring up the department's brand new threat response system. Absolutely nothing happened in visible sight, but within numerous, very special and much protected black-glass cabinets, each held at precise temperatures for exact reasons; in a most specific and nurtured room, the location of which remained most secret from anyone deemed insufficiently worthy to know; a very great deal was going on indeed. The most important of which was that the new system-protection programs Mycroft had recently authorised were made active. CATE was committed in every sense of the word.

_One keystroke_. Such a small thing to create an entire tsunami of difference, Mycroft imagined he could feel the ripples of change swirling outwards throughout his entire technological network. Complete nonsense, of course, he realised, blaming such romantic folly on Cate's sneaky, imaginative influence. Smiling fractionally, Mycroft lifted his head; he would have to speak to her about that. In the meantime, however, he watched in silence as Elly and the young Bobby co-ordinated an incremental uptake of the new metaprogram across all his department's servers, databases and communication lines.

Swivelling in her chair, Ibarra let out a long-held breath. She felt as if she hadn't breathed properly for over an hour, but, now that the entire system was live, there was little point continuing to agonize. Clearer eyes than hers would spot any mistake, no matter how minor. She knew, however, that if things went wrong now, it would be she who would take the blame for it. An unnerving thought, no matter how logical.

"It's done, Sir," she said, looking fatalistic. "CATE has been fully integrated into existing department systems at all levels and incorporating all sections and sectors." Widening her eyes and blinking to clear them, she grinned a little nervously. "Everything checks out green across the board."

"Congratulations to both you and your junior associate," Mycroft looked and sounded quietly pleased. Glancing across at his Head of IT, "And to you, Mr Rao," he added. "Adaptability is never a comfortable companion, though often a vital one. My congratulations to you and your entire team." Nodding approval, Mycroft returned to his office: there was a particular phone conversation waiting to be enjoyed.

###

Switching on the lights in her office, Cate sighed as she saw the small mountain of things still needed to be completed by her: where were the magical elves when you really needed them? Throwing her briefcase into the corner, she plonked down into her seat, feeling an immediate ache in her back from her time in this same seat from yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that. A person could really get to dislike a chair.

There were two main piles on the desk in front of her. The first, a pile of papers; the second, a pile of books. Knowing full well that she had only today left by which to complete all the actions associated with the issues recognised in the various documents, and also knowing that procrastination was the thief of something vaguely important, Cate nevertheless ignored the first pile in favour of the second. Spreading the books across her desk, she grinned an evil grin.

Every single one of them was about Chess.

Following the evening spent at the hotel – and it really had been an hotel, not a bordello – with Mycroft in some rather dreamy discussions about the game – and she smiled at the memory of a few very particular discussions – it had become clear that he genuinely wanted her to be able to put up some form of game against him. It was all a bit daunting: both Mycroft and Sherlock were virtuoso players as she'd seen for herself on the odd occasion they managed to agree upon a game together. That her husband imagined she might ever mount a defence to withstand him for more than a couple of moves was deeply complimentary, but hardly realistic: and Cate was nothing if not realistic.

There was, however, one major point in her favour, and Cate hugged the knowledge in a tight little glow of joy. _She was an expert at learning_. She'd been doing it for decades. Her ability to find information on a thing, to absorb that information and then to understand and manipulate it, was a _raison d'être_. Cate knew she wasn't fashionable or beautiful, or even terribly good at anything beyond this area, but within it, she could be exceptional. A clandestine smile curved the corners of her mouth: _Beware, my love_.

But now she faced the age-old dilemma she always faced: things she _had_ to do versus things she _wanted_ to do. And, as always, Cate fell back upon a tried-and-tested compromise in order to accomplish both. First something from the boring pile. Picking up the top sheet of paper, Cate saw that it was a request from the Office of Premises to arrange access to the primary conference room in order to install and set up a bank of computers and laptop access-points for delegates. This was essential and needed to be done perfectly, which meant the technicians involved needed as much time as possible. Picking up her phone, Cate called the Premises Manager, Mischa Lefkawitz.

"_Mischa_," Cate's greeting was cordial. He was a pleasant man and she always tried to accommodate his requests if she could. "It's Cate Adin-Holmes. What do your people need from me to set this conference up properly?"

"Hiya, Cate," Lefkawitz sounded pleased to hear from her. "Lots to do and not much time, eh?"

Shaking her head and smiling, Cate screwed up her face. He wanted something.

"Okay, give," she said. "What am I going to be sacrificing in order to offer you whatever it is you're about to ask me for?"

Mischa's laughter was loud in her ear. "You know me too well," he chortled.

"And the answer _is_ ..?" Cate was not about to be charmed by this man.

"I need extra pairs of hands to get everything done by the deadline you've laid out," he said. "I need to hire additional staff. It's gonna cost."

Cate winced. Taking on extra people was a sore point across the university these days.

"May I ask what these extra hands would be doing?"

"Assistance work to accredited university technical staff."

"So, nothing overtly complex but as an essential support to senior technicians?"

Lefkawitz paused, thinking, then agreed. "Yeah," he said. "Something like that."

Cate also paused. "And if I can get you these additional hands," she asked. "What else can you get done for me by the deadlines? Is there anything you can't do in time?"

"_Nah_," Mischa sounded happily optimistic. "Nothing else is a problem if you can get me the support I want."

"Alright, Mr Lefkawitz," Cate nodded down the phone. "I think I may be able to assist you here – give me five minutes and I'll get back to you."

Replacing her phone, Cate immediately picked it up again and phoned the Head of the Department of Energy Studies.

"_Ron_?" she asked. "Do you have any of those uber-keen, part-qualified sparkies hanging around?"

Apparently, Ron, Head of the Department of Energy Studies did indeed have a number of young undergrads who met that description.

"Mischa needs ten of them to assist in setting up my conference. There's no pay involved, but I'll personally write each one of them a reference and I'll throw in all the pizza and beer they can physically absorb at the end of each full-day's work."

Head of Department Ron asked Cate to hold the line. Smiling, she did.

In less than two minutes, he was back, reading out a list of ten names and mobile numbers. There were other names, he said, should these prove less than desirous.

"Ron, you're a peach. Please tell this motley crew that Mischa Lefkawitz will be contacting them today to arrange time and place for their assistance." Cate inhaled with relief. "Thank you, my friend."

In moments, she was back in touch with the Premises Manager.

"_Mischa_," she said. "I have ten, part-qualified and very keen young electricians who require no pay but mountainous quantities of pizza and beer, which I will also have arranged for you. They are expecting your call today, and I am sending an image of the list to your mobile right … _now_." Sending him a copy of the names via her own Galaxy, Cate relaxed a little. One problem down.

Replacing her phone, she turned this time to the book at the top of her Chess pile. Written by Silman, it purported to contain every major chess strategy since those of Wilhelm Steinitz.

Opening it to the first page of the first chapter, Cate began to read very, _very_ carefully.

###

"How irksome," Sherlock looked utterly peeved as he lounged on the sofa.

"He hardly threw himself under the cab on purpose, Sherlock," John raised his eyebrows at his flatmate in disbelief. "I'm fairly confident that it was not Dr Swift's intention to do you out of a confession through his own accidental death."

"I put nothing beyond academics," Sherlock sulked. "Pitiable wannabe non-conformists with illusions of intellectual grandeur and a rabid desire to see their names in print."

"And your favourite Sister-in-law's one of them," John grinned a little. Whatever Sherlock might say, or not say, John knew his friend held a growing respect and some form of friendship for Cate. He never called her boring, at least, and that was a great deal more than he did for many others.

"Cate is the only one I have," Sherlock looked weary.

"_Ergo_," John sounded superior, "she is your favourite."

Making a sound that indicated neither his agreement nor its opposite; the younger Holmes pressed his hands together and rested his chin in the junction of his thumbs.

"We know now that Swift was at least involved in writing the envelope," he said. "Most likely at the behest of a friend and-or colleague; a person who was also at the university and at the very building in which he worked."

"But why would anyone write someone's address on an envelope at another person's request?" he asked, curious. "Seems an odd thing to do."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, deep in thought. "John," he asked, vaguely. "Could you do me a favour and draw a diagram of the intersection where Swift was killed?"

"Of course." John grabbed a scrap of writing paper and sketched out a simple line-drawing of the roads and the proximity to the nearest buildings. He even added in the various names of places and drew in a couple of small arrows to indicate the direction of both Swift and the vehicle. Handing it over, John prepared to answer whatever questions Sherlock was about to throw at him.

"I'm impressed, John." Sherlock took in all the details at a glance. "How long did you spend on this?"

Confused, his flatmate frowned. "You know how long," John said. "You watched me do it."

"Two minutes, fourteen seconds and … a … bit." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Imagine how much less of an effort it would have been to write an address for me."

Understanding Sherlock's point, John walked over and snatched his sketch back, screwing it up into a tight ball and flicking it sharply at his friend's head.

"_Arse_," he muttered.

"So we may surmise that Swift wrote the address in his own hand at a colleague's asking," Sherlock sat upright, his chin still wedged into his hands. "But why?"

"Maybe the colleague had an injured hand?" John sat, thinking. "Or perhaps they had their hands full and needed to write something down and Swift merely happened to be at the scene at the time – which means it could have been anyone who might have ended up writing the envelope."

"But think, John," Sherlock paused. "You just spent over two minutes producing a fairly detailed, though woefully inaccurate map of an accident scene at my request," he said. "Would you have done that, spent that amount of time and effort on a thing, just for _anyone_?"

Looking thoughtful, John shook his head. "I did it for you, because I thought you were serious and it was a part of your solution-process," he said. "But I wouldn't have done it for just anyone, no." He frowned. "_Woefully_ _inaccurate_?"

"Therefore we may also surmise that whoever made the request of Swift both knew him well enough to ask and was equally in a position where he might be in their presence on a regular basis during the working day." Sherlock focused on the deduction.

The flatmates looked at each other.

"It's another senior academic," John lifted his eyebrows.

"Or at the very least," Sherlock nodded, "a long-term colleague whom Swift acknowledged as a peer."

"So we need a list of senior staff at Professor-level, who have worked at the University for as long as Swift, or with whom he has worked for at least the last few years?"

"Excellent, John," Sherlock sat back, relaxed. "Just hit the enter-key on your laptop, if you wouldn't mind."

Frowning again, John turned and pressed the key. Immediately a group of around ten or so names appeared on a white page.

"Managed to download a whole bunch of staff web pages which all include a summary of employment, including," he said, coming to stand behind John's shoulder to peer down at the list, "length of service."

As John read down the list, he noticed there were administrative as well as academic staff on it. "So how do we start narrowing the field?"

"If you open the spreadsheet from the task-bar," Sherlock touched the tab with a fingertip, throwing the document in question open to view, "you'll see I've already cross-indexed each of these possible suspects against their possible interaction with Swift as a colleague and their physical access to him on a daily or otherwise regular basis.

"Now if I ask for the results to be filtered by _these_ parameters …" Sherlock pressed a key.

A much shorter list appeared. There were only four names on it.

"And now we check where each of these individuals were when Swift died, and we are likely to find the person who asked him to write the envelope."

John looked at the new list with real interest.

The name at the very top was that of Charles Shelsher: Vice Chancellor of the University.

###

"Certainly, Home Secretary," Mycroft walked around his office with the Blackberry at his ear. "Happy to accommodate your idea. I'll have my people make the arrangements and keep you informed."

Returning his phone to an inner-jacket pocket, Mycroft checked the time on his half-hunter. If the demonstration was to be first thing in the morning, it might be advisable to have a few words with his razor sharp IT _wunderkinder_. CATE was about to be put through her paces by a group of the most immoral, criminally-minded and mendacious individuals he could think of: the combined British Security Services were coming for morning tea.

But this was precisely what Mycroft had wanted. The Home Office would be quite happy to claim his department's work as a governmental breakthrough; and despite the sure knowledge that both MI5 and MI6 would demand equal access to the new security programs positing a hacked national security as _casus belli_, none of this mattered. What mattered was that _his_ team had succeeded in doing this, against all expectations and with virtually none of the funding or resources held by other stakeholders.

Let them have the new programs: his department would end up with something of far greater usefulness over them all._ Power_.

###

The pile of papers had been reduced to a few remaining scraps: Cate had soldiered through every last one of the problems set before her, interspersing each one with a chapter from Silman's text. During a brief break from her desk, she had crept into one of the student commons and stol … ah, _liberated_, a weather-beaten chessboard and set. It was fairly obvious it was a set much used by students, as many of the pieces had received major remodelling, including the full cohort of pawns which now sported rather jaunty hats made from carefully flattened Pepsi and Coke bottle-tops. Examining the faces of the major pieces, Cate saw that the white King wore a real glass monocle, while the black King had clearly suffered in some recent combat since he had a tiny white bandage around his head, and each of the knights sported a genuine goatee. Deciding not to investigate the type of hair in any real detail, Cate set the opposing sides out along the board on her desk.

Taking the final major task from the boring pile, Cate saw that there were only a couple of papers left. Heaving a sigh of gratitude, she focussed on clearing this last thing – the merest _soupçon_ of a dilemma involving an interfaith public holiday right smack in the middle of the conference. Identifying the key speakers and conveners for the main focus-groups on that day, she simply instituted a break day one day earlier than planned and sent out an update to the speakers advising them of the fact. Problem solved. Stretching herself tall, Cate smiled in relief; both at having finished her work with the conference, and at the fact that she could now legally spend some time playing.

Turning to yet another of the books in her small collection, Cate realised that this one laid out a series of game-models. She really needed at least another board, or better yet, several boards, so she could set each one up and compare and memorise the plays and ploys. But she couldn't very well commandeer … ah, _liberate,_ every available student set or she'd have a riot on her hands. With this in mind, Cate jumped online and hunted down the closest games shop; it wasn't far. She could be there and back within fifteen minutes. Making up her mind, she picked up her phone and rang the shop.

"How many chess sets do you have in stock?"

Holding while the sales assistant went to check, Cate further realised there was a finite amount of room in her office: there was no way she was going to be able to set up more than two or three boards there. Perhaps she should take a leaf from Mycroft's book and go find a suitable room somewhere quiet and out of the way.

Or _perhaps_ … she grinned. An even more intriguing idea shimmied through her imagination.

###

"They will undoubtedly be seeking whatever flaws might still be extant," Mycroft sat at the head of the conference-table; his IT team around the rest of it. "They may ask any person in the room questions about the function of any part of CATE," he added, "and those I would like you all to answer as fully and coherently as you can," he paused. "They may also attempt to ask you questions of departmental process or procedure, or possibly even inquire about inter-departmental operations and related activities," Mycroft paused again. "These types of questions are _not_ to be attempted in any manner, and the person making any such form of query should be directed immediately to either your HoD or to myself."

Standing, walking around the table to stare out of the nearest window at the surrounding stone walls of the neighbouring buildings, turning, he swept the room with a dark blue gaze.

"These are very clever, very manipulative people who may not always play fair or have our best interests in their hearts," he said. "Please remember this whenever you have cause to speak to any one of them."

###

It was well after six by the time Mycroft slid his key into his front door. Stepping through towards the main hallway, his first impression was that either there was a power-cut, or that several light bulbs had blown: it was unusually dim. Closing the main door behind him, he looked for Cate who was almost always home first.

"_Darling_?" he walked towards the kitchen, only to stop short as he saw, on one of the hall tables, several lit white candles of varying heights surrounding a chess-board laid out as if a game was in progress. Unable to restrain his curiosity, Mycroft stepped closer to examine both the board, the pieces and the state-of-play. It was a classic Sicilian Defence, with black in a strong position, waiting only on white's next move. His index-finger and thumb were poised above the White King's knight, literally _itching_ to supply the necessary provocation for black's next attack, when a small movement fluttered in his peripheral vision. He looked up, fingers still hovering over the chosen piece.

"Please don't touch anything until it's time."

Cate had indeed reached home before him, and apparently, had dressed for dinner. Mycroft stood upright and stared at his wife. Clad from her bare shoulders to bare toes in floating drapes of sheer black material, she held a long black cane in her right hand: on the top of the cane was a small golden circlet. A similar, though slightly larger version of the same circlet rested over her brows. Mycroft stared in growing amusement: Cate was dressed as the Black Queen.

"You have a hidden flair for the dramatic, my love," he smiled, walking towards her.

Nimbly avoiding his embrace, Cate drew herself up to her full five-feet-six inches.

"One is usually addressed as 'Your Royal Majesty'," she said, a cool look of lèse majestè across her features. "Or 'Ma'm, if I'm in a good mood," she added, over her shoulder.

"And this is part of your process of learning chess?" Mycroft was smiling broadly now; she never ceased to entertain him with her enlightened madness.

"I'm calling it _Method Chess_," Cate advised haughtily, staring down her nose at him as best she could, given that he was nearly a foot taller. "I intend to act the part until I am at one with my avatar," she half-turned, indicating the dining room. "Shall we dine, my Prince Consort?"

So: he had been elevated to the rank of _Consort._ About to offer Cate his arm in a gesture of fealty and courtesy, he realised she'd already turned towards the door. This provided him with a view of her back, and … it was quite a view. From the front, Cate was perfectly clothed, almost modestly covered, however, her back was entirely different, with the knotted ends of the flimsy fabric tied behind her neck, and a second knot holding together two other ends, undulating tantalizingly as she walked. The knot lay, quite happily, just below the top of her buttocks. There was nothing covering her back whatsoever: the concave and rounded curves of her hips and waist inviting his touch. The realisation that Cate was obviously completely naked beneath an insubstantial layer of fabric should not have had the effect it did, but Mycroft found his mouth suddenly dry and with a need to swallow in a tightening throat.

"_Ah_ … may one ask Your Royal Majesty how she is managing to retain her dignity in such a perilous gown?"

"Two safety-pins, _really_ good posture and a strong element of luck," Cate answered, turning very carefully back towards him. Her smile was luminescent.

"_Darling_," she grinned, holding out her arms.

"Darling _Consort_," Mycroft slid his arms around her, the heat from her bare skin searing entirely through his suit to his own flesh. Despite the warmth of the air, he felt himself shiver as an intense wave of sensation, of emotion, rushed through him. He pulled Cate close, hugging her tight against his chest, burying his face in the soft fragrance of her hair.

"How do you make me feel like this?" he whispered against her ear. "How is it possible for me to be more in love with you every day?" Mycroft closed his eyes and squeezed, feeling Cate's smaller form arch against his own.

"I don't know," she was whispering too. "Is it a bad thing?"

"_Bad_?" Mycroft drew back to stare at her. "It's _incredible_."

"I only ask because I've never felt like this with anyone before you," Cate said. "Isn't this how one is supposed to feel?"

Mycroft inhaled deeply. It was a valid question, and he wasn't the best, perhaps, to answer it. "_Truthfully_," he said. "I don't know how anyone is supposed to feel in a relationship like ours."

"Then we'll just have to put up with feeling wonderful about each other and hope nobody notices," Cate was trying hard to keep a straight face. "Now are you going to have some dinner after I've slaved over a hot chess-board all afternoon, or not?"

Unable to allow her from his arms without a kiss, Mycroft contented himself with a gentle brush of their lips – anything more would wreak havoc with his lamentably poor self-control and he would be tempted to ravish his wife on their dining room table. Not in itself, an unpleasing notion, he had an idea that Cate wasn't quite finished with him this evening as her chess tutor. _Later, then_. His eyes glinted.

Dinner was something Malaysian: aromatic and spicy, with a Californian Vin Gris rose: crisp and dry but with an agreeable acidity. Mycroft found it difficult to focus on the food as there were now two serious distractions facing him: Cate's increasing _dishabille_, and the several chess-boards she'd set up, before his arrival, in various stages of play. Maintaining her regal outfit only by the greatest of good fortune, Cate gave up part-way through the meal and began to reconstruct it at the table.

"Aren't you going to offer to assist?" she asked, half in and half out of the toga she was attempting to create.

"Not a chance," he smiled, resting his chin on his hands. "I have a perfectly acceptable view from right here."

"Lecherous beast." Her simplified robe now complete, Cate resumed dinner with a sigh of comfort.

"So when am I to be permitted to engage with your fiendishly enticing lures?" he asked, peering inquisitively at the several practice-games Cate had arranged.

"Are we done with dinner?"

Stretching his arms behind his head, Mycroft lifted his eyebrows and looked keen.

Cate sat down in front of him.

"There are several steps I find most conducive to learning," she said. "First, I need to understand the ideas I'm talking about – the theories, philosophies, if you like – and where each fits into the others." Standing, she reached for his hand and pulled Mycroft over to the nearest board. It contained a very simple, beginner's, French Defence.

"The next way I learn is to begin to put some of the more friendly new ideas into a practical setting and then play with things until I understand more clearly what I'm doing." Sitting her husband on one side of the board and herself on the other, Cate rested her head in a palm, looking between the pieces and Mycroft's calm expression.

"Tell me," she said. "What I'm looking at."

Smiling in genuine pleasure, Mycroft began to explain the pieces, the play and the objectives. _Queen's Gambit Declined_; _Petroff Defence_; _Bishop's Opening_; all relatively straightforward plays. Cate had laid each one out on a separate board and she absorbed them all.

"Enough for the night," Mycroft eventually sat back, rolling his neck and shoulders to ease a slight cramping. "There are other things I wish to discuss with my queen," his voice was smiling now.

"If you're about to tell me you're envious of my Method Chess technique, I can easily knock something up along the same lines for you, if you'd like?" Cate rubbed the back of her neck. "I know you're a fan of the White Queen, so if you have any inclination to frock-up, now would be the time to let me know."

Moving to stand behind her, Mycroft's fingers were gentle as they massaged the fine skin at the nape of Cate's neck, feeling the interplay of delicate muscle and bone beneath his fingertips. Groaning softly with enjoyment, Cate allowed her head to droop forward; the sensation of his hands on one of the most sensitive parts of her body craved by her whole being.

"I'll leave the frocking-up to you, my darling," his voice was quiet, suggestive. "And I'm really rather more interested right now in a little _defrocking_." Leaning down, his lips brushed against the velvet of her hairline, directly over Cate's trapezius muscle.

A hard jolt of sensation stabbed directly down her spine, shocking her skin into hundreds of goose-bumps and making her heart thud so violently she was sure he would have heard.

Cate's hissed breath alone told him what he wanted to know, but observing the infinitesimal ripples of Cate's skin as she shuddered beneath his touch, Mycroft felt his own desire begin to seethe.

Turning his wife in his arms, his mouth sought hers blindly; waves of heat and want guiding his cool hands demandingly over her warm flesh. The convulsive intensity of his feelings made Mycroft shiver uncontrollably once again. _Dear God_. _Too much_.

She possessed him: heart and soul. He could mount no defence against this.

_Check and Mate_.

###

She had done it. Every single issue arising out of the reprise of the Bilbao Conference, and she had dealt successfully with them all.

Sitting at, for once, a beautifully empty desk, Cate grinned like a maniac, tilting her chair back as far as she could, dangling her feet in mid-air for the sheer silliness of the feeling. It was done; over; finished. Finally, she could go back to being just another delegate, and let the Admin people do what they were far better at doing than she.

Looking around her office, Cate noticed something that made her swear quietly in frustration. There was a single folded sheet of paper beneath the far side of the desk; it had probably fallen down from one of her mad 'to do' piles over the last few days. Making a long arm, she reached down to pluck it up between two fingers. Setting it down in front of her, Cate took a deep breath before she felt ready to open the folds and see exactly what it was she had missed: hopefully it would be something small and easily rectified. Parting the folds, she stopped breathing.

**WHORE. DON'T THINK YOU CAN FOOL EVERYONE. WHORE**

Dropping the paper in shocked surprise, Cate sat back in her chair, breathing hard as her heart-rate slowed. A hate letter delivered by hand? Copying what she had seen both Mycroft and Inspector Lestrade do, she picked the paper up again by the extreme top left-hand corner and examined the writing in greater detail.

There was nothing special about the typing, and the paper looked identical to all the other paper used in these offices, yet to have found this thing on her desk meant that the author must be able to access her office, which further meant that it was probably someone she knew.

A faint coiling in her belly made Cate aware of a growing anger. She had had about enough of this. Grasping the paper more firmly, and about to storm out of her office to go to the police, she noticed something odd … there was the faintest … _smell_.

Lifting it up to her face, Cate sniffed the paper carefully. Yes: there was definitely some kind of aroma there. Wafting the page around a little, Cate took another deep sniff. The smell was perfume. And not just any perfume, but a particular blend that she recognised.

After a second's thought, Cate was able to connect the perfume to a face, and that face to a name.

_No_. _It wasn't possible_.

Grabbing the paper in her hand, Cate ran out of her office, heading for the Executive offices of the University hierarchy.

This was going to end right now.


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_CATE Shows Off – Conceivably, War – Proof of the Poison Pen – The Treasure of Portobello Road – A Resignation – Shall We Play? – Not Exactly Cricket – A Different Resignation – Return of the Professor – Mystical Contact._

#

#

"Is the system ready, Ms Ibarra?" Mycroft stood off to one side, hands clasped behind his back as he waited, slightly apart from his security service contemporaries.

"Whenever you are, Sir," Elly Ibarra turned to Bobby who smiled back, blissfully relaxed and happy. He had an idea that this was going to be fun of the highest scale. Elly and he had talked about what was very likely to happen, and what contingencies they'd need to have built-in. He had helped her do the things she wanted. Then he'd gone away and done a few extra things that _he_ wanted. But everyone was being so serious about the test that Bobby tried very hard not to look as if he were enjoying himself.

The anticipated visitors had arrived: the Home Secretary, Philip Evans; Donald Parker, Director-General of MI5, and Davis Morgan, current Chief of the Secret Intelligence Service, once again face-to-face across the floor of Mycroft's operations room. Standing relaxed at the rear of the group was the lanky form of Greg Lestrade, flanked by two of his IT specialists.

Mycroft considered these court cards: a King; two Knaves and a hidden Ace. Not quite a full-house, but more than sufficient for what lay ahead.

"Then please begin the demonstration," Mycroft smiled slightly, turning to look at his guests. "_Gentlemen_," he said, benignly. "CATE awaits."

"Less of the ringmaster, Holmes," Evans sounded irritated. "Just show us the damn thing."

Indicating upwards towards a series of extra-large plasma screens, Mycroft looked mild. "Then observe," he said.

Immediately, a series of flow-charts indicating CATE's parameters, goals and abilities flickered into being. Projecting everything from concept to implementation, CATE's innermost functions and interfaces were laid out for all to see and understand.

"All very well and good," Parker noted. "But does it actually work?"

Lifting his eyebrows fractionally, Mycroft turned towards Elly Ibarra with a miniscule nod.

Taking her cue, Elly initiated the series of contiguous challenges, each designed by herself and Bobby to test thoroughly CATE's ability to detect, identify and appropriately respond to any given form of incoming communication.

First, a rapid-fire sequence of incoming hostiles of various forms: emails with hidden packages; viruses, malware; spyware, encoded worms. Each one was instantly quarantined, identified for what it was and, after the key features and the location of its origin had been recorded for future analysis and general information, immediately destroyed.

"But these are tame threats," Davis Morgan was less than impressed. "Your system has already been set up to deal with such knowns. We need to see how it deals with something out of left-field; something unexpected."

Mycroft's face remained unmoving, but his eyes flickered at Elly. She got the message.

"Initiating Quadrate Test One," she advised, hitting a single key, setting an unusual suite of actions into train.

On the plasmas above their heads, Mycroft's guests watched a strange schematic appear. Showing a central point: CATE's server, there were four arrows, each one pointing to a different destination. The destination labels were intriguing: the Home Office; MI5, MI6 and New Scotland Yard. A fifth line curved back towards CATE.

"_What in hell's name ..?_" the Home Secretary stared uneasily at the diagram, as a small red light moved at an extreme speed out from CATE and along the arrowed lines towards each of the four destinations.

"An identical hostile has just been sent to each of your respective networks," Mycroft sounded complacent, relaxed. "It has been designed to select, at random, several elements from a variety of aggressive functions, any one of which is capable of crashing the most secure of firewalls and security barriers; although I have no idea which unfriendly combination of elements it may choose."

"How do you know all of this?" Donald Parker looked and sounded indignant.

"I know this," Mycroft smiled a faint smile of easy knowledge. "Because I sent it." He looked down, briefly inspecting the shine of his shoe.

"But please don't rely upon _my_ advice," he said, softly. "You may wish to verify this by contacting your own people."

There was a brief flurry of activity as four mobiles were extracted from four pockets. Several hushed, though urgent, conversations ensued.

Greg Lestrade was the first to react.

"You better have a damn good justification for this, Mycroft," he muttered. "The whole Yard's just gone into a mad bloody flap with the entire network crashing around everybody's ears." Lestrade looked him directly in the eye. "If there is any permanent damage to anything, I will personally supply the handcuffs."

"Calm yourself, Inspector," Mycroft looked pacific. "This is a demonstration only: the hostile has been programmed to self-destruct after sixty seconds, at which point all systems default to their previous extancy."

"It's done _what_?" with his phone still plastered to his ear, Morgan's head jerked around to stare in Mycroft's direction. "Then _stop_ it from doing that," he insisted, listening. "_Because it's your bloody job_, _is how_," he scowled at the phone in his hand, before fixing his stare upon Mycroft.

"You've attempted to hack MI6?" he sounded incredulous.

"_Attempted_?" Mycroft blinked slowly.

"You go too far, Holmes," Evans shoved his mobile back into his jacket. "There will be repercussions."

"I sincerely hope so, Minister," Mycroft snapped. "_Watch_."

Pointing up to the screen, all the swift red dots had reached their locations, including the one marked 'CATE', which was now a flashing yellow circle, but nothing had gone down; no security crisis had been activated.

"Please observe closely, gentlemen," Mycroft nodded once again in Ibarra's direction. Touching a couple of keys, Elly brought up CATE's current configuration and status. Everything was green across the board; everything except the flash of yellow.

"Hostile checked; identified; isolated; dissected and …" she turned to Mycroft with a gleeful grin, "rectified," she said.

"_Rectified_?" the Home Secretary demanded? "What gibberish is this?"

"Merely an indication that CATE had dealt with the unknown incoming hostile in a manner which permits us to not only track the attack from its point of origin but," Mycroft looked particularly smug, "to respond in an equally belligerent manner if we so desire."

"Meaning?" Parker's tone was curious rather than sharp. Mycroft smiled inwardly: he had at least one potential convert.

"Meaning," he said. "That we can retaliate at whatever level we deem appropriate; whenever, wherever and at whomsoever we decide."

Evans still looked confused. Mycroft sighed.

"We can _fight back_, Minister," he said.

Donald Parker started to look very interested.

"Still don't credit your system as being God's gift, Holmes," Philip Evans was being his usual antagonistic self. _Really_, Mycroft wondered; how on earth the man was ever elected, let along appointed to a Ministerial seat, amazed him: he was completely lacking in either insight or judgement.

A light cough interrupted their conversation: Ibarra was looking oddly at her young colleague.

"Apparently there are other tests, Sir," she said, frowning at her genius friend. "Bobby's tests."

Raising a solitary brow, Mycroft turned thoughtfully in the young man's direction.

"Are they safe tests?" he asked.

Bobby considered the question for a moment before screwing up half his face and nodding slowly. "Safe but dangerous," he said, eventually.

"Dangerous for whom?" Lestrade walked across to stare down at the boy. "For my systems?"

"No Sir," Bobby shook his head. "For CATE's systems."

"Then by all means, let's have at it," Evans demanded. Clearly he wanted to reduce any perceived advantage Mycroft's department might have accumulated.

Taking a slow breath, Mycroft nodded: impossible to back away now. CATE would either fly high, or, like Icarus, chance too close to the sun, and perish.

"Do it," he said.

Nodding, Bobby swivelled around to his keyboard, rapidly typing in several strings of command. Flicking a single key, he sat back, a satisfied smile across his face.

"Now CATE gets to play," he said.

Fearing the worst, Mycroft maintained an immobile expression as he, along with everyone else, turned to watch the action on the large screens above their heads.

It began to look like a firework display.

The images had changed to indicate CATE in the centre of the screen, surrounded, not only by her four counterparts of the Yard, MI5, MI6 and the Home Office, but now also including Interpol; the French _Deuxième Bureau_; the American CIA as well as the FBI; Mossad and the German _Bundeswehr_, among others. Dotted lines of arrows emanated out from the center towards each one, with small red blips flashing outwards.

Mycroft's muscles tensed a little as he realised that, should anything go wrong now, he might have initiated a massive international incident. Conceivably, war.

The series of red dots reached their targets and immediately bounced back towards CATE. There were at least twelve simultaneous, incoming signals. It would look as if all twelve incoming objects had originated from the disparate locations. CATE would not be able to tell if they were friendly or otherwise.

"These are all hostile, Sir," Bobby said. "_Very_ hostile."

Relaxing slightly once he saw that his young technology whizz had not, in fact, instigated world-conflict, Mycroft focused upon the new threat.

"How dangerous?" he asked.

Shrugging, Bobby looked excited. "Everything CATE has," he said.

Returning his eyes to the screen, Mycroft took a deep breath.

"_Gentlemen_," he announced. "Your wish is granted." Every eye was fixed upon the incoming strikes as they achieved their target: CATE's central nexus. Almost everyone anticipated an immediate crashing of communications, failing systems and the annihilation of all functioning technology.

Nothing happened.

The air remained completely quiet and undisturbed. Not a peep, not a flickering screen, not even the ringing of a phone. The silence was utter and profound. Only the single flashing yellow dot suggested anything had changed at all.

"Multiple attacks successfully negated, Sir," Ibarra could hardly believe what she was seeing. "CATE asks what you want to do with their cargo."

"Destroy it," Mycroft's smile was inscrutable and elusive. _CATE was a success_.

"I demand access to that system," Parker was the first to speak. "Today, if possible."

Turning to glance across at the remaining visitors, Mycroft watched the desire for CATE dawn across their faces like the rising sun, and felt a momentary flicker of ascendancy. Now he had them.

He had them all.

###

At almost precisely the same time that Mycroft was basking in the afterglow of CATE's unparalleled triumph, Cate was storming across the Quad, heading directly for the Offices of the Vice Chancellor, a single sheet of paper clenched between her fingers. The look of dire reproach on her face did not bode well for the intended recipient of her wrath. She was practically steaming with anger.

Unwilling to wait for the lift to take her to the second floor suite of executive offices, Cate threw herself up the stairs and charged out through the emergency doors at the top. About to launch herself bodily through the very solid portal that opened into the rarefied atmosphere of the VC's world, Cate suddenly felt a strong arm grab her around the middle and drag her to a standing halt, then back into the stairwell. Immediately, she struggled to get herself free, only to hear John's voice suggesting she stop.

"Cate, _Cate_," he muttered, holding her still. "You can't go storming in there."

Taking a huge lungful of air to calm her pounding heart and incipient fury, she batted at John's arm.

"_Let me go_," she growled through gritted teeth.

"If I let you go in there and anything happened to you, your husband would skin me alive and have me for cat food," John sounded quite serious.

The unlikely image of Mycroft being cross with John was so absurd; Cate stopped struggling and almost smiled.

"I know who sent me that letter," she said.

"So do we," Sherlock slipped through the stairwell doors to join them. "And if you go throwing yourself at them, without any proof, or the means to achieve such proof, they'll have you on a count of common assault. _Therefore_," he added, "I strongly recommend you think before taking further action."

"I received another note," Cate waved the offending article under Sherlock's nose. "And I don't give a _shit_ about assault charges," she hissed. "I want to kick some _serious_ arse here."

Unable to avoid grinning, John relaxed his arm as he sensed Cate's body stand down from Defcon One.

"You _really_ don't want to do that," Sherlock murmured, lifting the crumpled note from her fingers, glancing at the single line of text. "There's a better way."

"What better way?" she snapped, unmollified.

Sherlock told her.

A minute later, all three of them entered the portal to _Mahogany Row_, as the executive offices were sometime less-than-affectionately known. Though internally simmering, Cate was at least outwardly calm.

At the very far end of the long corridor, the entrance to the VC's office stood in isolated splendour: they walked towards it, stopping at a door about halfway down on the left.

The door's plate read simply '_Office of the Bursar – Dr Ruth Howells'_.

They entered without knocking, Cate waving at the administrative assistant typing away at her own desk in the foyer to the main office.

"No need to announce us," she said. "Ruth's expecting me."

Sweeping through, Cate opened the inner door that lead directly into Ruth Howell's private office.

Dr Howells looked up, an odd expression on her face, quickly changing to one of bewilderment.

"_Cate_ ..?" she said, looking at the three of them. "I wasn't to meet with you, was I?"

Plonking herself down into one of the large seats before the desk, Cate smiled grimly.

"No," she said. "I don't think you were."

Nodding at Sherlock and John, Cate narrowed her eyes. "Investigators," she said, quietly. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out two separate pieces of folded white paper, exactly the same kind of paper used around the whole university. Cate laid both pieces, still folded, upon Ruth's desk.

"I think you need to explain these," she murmured.

Ruth shook her head. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

Sherlock leaned forward, his hands resting along the front of Dr Howell's desk.

"We know you wrote these," he said, nodding at the papers. "We want to know why you wrote them."

Still defiant, Howells stared them down. Like Cate, she was a veteran of uncounted political battles and knew exactly how to hold her tongue in a difficult spot.

"Very well, then, Dr Howells," John said, standing up. "We'll have to ask you to accompany us."

From out of nowhere, Sherlock dangled a set of shiny handcuffs. Cate was impressed: she had no idea he kept such esoteric things on his person.

"Unfortunately," he looked apologetic. "We'll have to walk you all the way through the campus as our transport is on the far side of Tottenham Court Road."

"You're going to put me in handcuffs and take me out the long way?" for the first time, Ruth Howells sounded less than happy. "You can't do that."

"Please stand up, Dr Howells," John stepped back and looked officious. "No need to make a fuss about this."

"You're not taking me in handcuffs through the entire campus and out onto the street," Howells shook her head violently. "It would totally ruin my reputation."

"And what of _my_ reputation?" Cate snapped. "Not pleasant when you're on the other end, is it?"

"If you'd played fair, none of this would have happened!" Ruth blazed across her desk. "But, _oh no_," she made a face, "you had to go and get involved with the one person Charles Shelsher would listen to," she shook her head in disgust. "No wonder you got the Dean's job," Howells looked ill. "Makes me sick to think I once considered you a genuine friend and colleague."

_Was that all it was_? Cate started to feel unwell herself. Was that really the cause of all this anxiety and misery? Ruth Howells thought she was getting an unfair advantage because she'd married an old friend of the VC?

"I wasn't aware my husband even knew Charles before the Alumni Ball," she said. "And you'd already made me the offer by then."

Dr Howells narrowed her eyes. Could she have been in error? It seemed unlikely.

"So you admit to sending Professor Adin-Holmes the two poison-pen notes?" Sherlock looked and sounded like a policeman.

Exhaling sharply, Dr Howells looked down at her desk before nodding.

"Yes," she said, wearily. "I wanted Cate to resign so that someone more worthy could have the role."

"David Swift, perhaps?" John looked sharp.

"David was a dear friend," Howells was distressed. "He wanted to help me, but he had no idea what I was doing," she looked up. "You have to believe me: David wasn't involved."

"I believe you," John nodded. "I was there when he died."

Looking immediately tragic, Ruth Howells bowed her head, a hand to her face. John fancied there was an entire other story in that gesture.

Cate couldn't stand it. The situation was awful, but she and Ruth had been friends a long time. "I think this needs to end here and now," she murmured. "I don't want to take this any further."

Sherlock looked her in the eye. "I doubt Mycroft will be so forgiving," he said. "He will undoubtable wish to speak with Dr Howells on this matter."

"There's no need," Cate looked down at the quietly sobbing woman. "It's over."

Looking over her head at John, Sherlock blinked expressively. It might be over for her, but his brother was an entirely different matter. Cate clearly had not yet grasped the depth of Mycroft's feelings: Ruth Howells was not going to get off so lightly. Leaning back across the desk, Sherlock retrieved his phone, which he'd set to 'record'. Mycroft could listen to the entire discussion at his leisure. They had their proof now.

###

Once Sherlock and John had gone their own way, and after ensuring the entire file of conference documentation had gone to the relevant administrative people, Cate felt a distinct need to get away from Gower Street. Walking aimlessly down the road, she found herself at the Euston Square tube station. Chewing over the recent revelation of Ruth Howell's aberrant behaviour, Cate wandered through the turnstile, her Oyster card at hand without realising. Taking whatever train arrived and changing mindlessly, Cate found herself emerging at Ladbroke Grove. The nearest place of interest here was Portobello Road, so she wandered along, her thoughts still churning through the things her friend had done from blind misunderstanding. Feeling rotten, Cate meandered down the stalls of the various vendors, looking sightlessly into windowed displays, seeking some solace after this morning's events.

Walking past a small, rather shabby, antique shop, Cate's brain brought her to a stop and reversed her steps. Peering through the somewhat dusty glass, Cate searched for whatever it was that had caused this action, her eyes finally settling on an old wooden box near the back of the window's presented goods. Without hesitation, she opened the door and walked inside. In the mood for a decent argument, Cate hoped the proprietor was up for a good haggle.

An older man trundled forward.

"Good morning," Cate smiled brightly. "I'd like to have a look at this please," she said pointing at the object of her desire.

"You have good taste," he nodded, cheerful at the prospect of such a sale. "Very old," he said. "Very rare." Dusting off the top carving of the box itself, the man lifted the lid to reveal the inner beauty. "_Very expensive_," he said.

"_How expensive_?" Cate found herself feeling better already.

###

Finally reaching home, Mycroft didn't know whether he was exhausted from the day's events or from the anticipation of events yet to come.

CATE's unashamed triumph meant that, at last, there was some cohesive security system that each of the various services could use after their own fashion. The Home Office was happy because Philip Evans would be able to sit in front of a barrage of television cameras and announce to the world that Britain was once more a safe place for technology. The MI-sections would undoubtedly attempt to reverse-engineer CATE's programming in order to render it more lethal, although what they would do with such lethality, he had no idea. Greg Lestrade had been the most reasonable-minded about the whole event.

"Saved the day, then?" he said.

"My IT staff are most ingenious," Mycroft nodded approvingly at Elly and the Young Bobby.

"You know Parker's going to try and poach them from you?"

Mycroft looked philosophical. "If that is their choice, then they will leave," he murmured, turning to watch Ibarra as she grabbed Bobby's arm and pulled him away from Donald Parker's proximity. Not enough that he should have direct access to CATE's systems, apparently: the man also wanted CATE's designers. How typically excessive of him.

Mycroft smiled fractionally. Judging by Elly Ibarra's reaction, he need have no immediate worries on that score.

There would be fall-out from today. His department had already received several queries from the various destinations of Bobby's rather impetuous target-practice. _Mossad_, in particular, had been quite pressing on the issue. No matter: for Mycroft, pouring oil on the troubled waters of international accord was all in a day's work.

But then there had been the problematic interview with Ruth Howells.

Sherlock had made it clear on the phone that Cate did not wish the situation to become any worse for the woman, but Mycroft deemed the discussion unavoidable. It had not only been Cate in the firing line, although she had taken the brunt of the broadside.

The meeting with Dr Howells had been brief and brutal. Mycroft had replayed the recorded conversation.

"You freely admit your responsibility in this matter?" he asked her.

"Yes," she muttered. "Although nothing happened the way I thought it would."

"You understand I cannot permit my reputation to be slandered like this without some recourse?"

Howells nodded. "You want my resignation," she acknowledged.

"Actually, were I to have a choice, I'd have you in gaol," he said.

Ruth Howells looked up, shocked.

"Apart from an indiscriminate and utterly ill-conceived campaign of hate," he said, "you went one step too far."

Looking at him in quiet fear, Dr Howells was afraid to ask.

"You made my wife cry," Mycroft's eyes were cold and without compassion.

Leaving the woman to consider her situation, Mycroft had exited the room and told the guards to let her go in an hour. She would resign the next day.

And now he could relax: Cate's turn to cook this evening and he wanted a strong Scotch and a hot bath. The night had turned unexpectedly chilly and Mycroft sought the comforts of his hearth.

The entrance hall was again dimmed and dark, the flickering lit of candles setting a path from the front door through to the dining room table. Hearing the sound of his key, Cate emerged from the kitchen. Taking one look at his face, she smiled.

"I think somebody needs a drink and a soak," she said. "Go on up and I'll bring you a malt."

Kissing her neck affectionately but without passion, Mycroft headed upstairs. Carrying two crystal tumblers of his favourite smoky Ardbeg, Cate walked into the bathroom to see her husband neck-deep in sudsy water.

"My love," she smiled again, placing both tumblers within his easy reach. "Dinner in about an hour?"

Lifting a dripping hand to catch her fingers, Mycroft brought them to his lips.

"_Perfect_," he murmured, relaxing deeper as the heat eased the stiffness of his neck and shoulders.

Back downstairs, Cate was grinning to herself. Once he had soaked, Mycroft was usually rested and more alert. Dinner tonight was one of his favourites: roasted lemon-rosemary chicken with vegetables and a divine Australian chardonnay. Cate had even lit a fire in the main lounge: Mycroft enjoyed a cognac beside the fire.

And then she had a little surprise for him. She grinned again.

Clad in somewhat more casual clothes; refreshed by his bath and restored by the peaty Scotch, Mycroft felt pretty much on top of the world as he headed down to dinner.

Kissing Cate more warmly this time, Mycroft slid his arms around her, nibbling her ear.

"A hot bath," he said. "My favourite malt, a roaring fire and now," he added, sniffing, "one of my favourite meals?" Turning to look Cate in the eyes, he smiled. "What have you done this time?

"What makes you assume I've done anything?" she demanded, indignant. "Really, Mycroft, you're too suspicious by half."

Reserving his judgement, and enjoying a delicious dinner, Mycroft decided against telling Cate of his conversation with her friend. Her probable _ex-_friend. Time enough in the morning for that.

"Shall we go into the lounge?" Cate linked her fingers through his. "I have a surprise for you."

Smiling again, Mycroft had an '_ahah'_ moment. Now he would see the reason behind all of her preparations.

In the half-lit room, on a small table close enough to the fire for comfort, was a magnificent chessboard and set of pieces. Glowing in the ambient light of the flames, fractions of each piece cast tiny reflections against its peers. Walking over, Mycroft could not resist picking up one of the knights. It filled his hand; heavy and solid, the carving skilfully fine and detailed. He could see immediately that this was an old set; probably made sometime in the late eighteenth-century: the artisan who crafted it had taken his time and created a thing of rare beauty. Of silver and heavy dark wood emblazoned with gold filigree, ivory inlay and curiously tinted veneers, it was the most lovely thing imaginable. And Cate had brought it home. For him.

"It's exquisite," he murmured, turning the piece in his fingers. "Where did you find it?"

Enjoying her husband's pleasure as he caressed the knight, Cate smiled.

"Found it in an old antiques place off Portobello Road," she said. "I needed cheering up."

Understanding her reference, Mycroft decided again against pursuing that particular conversation tonight.

"Shall we play?" he asked looking agreeably optimistic.

"That was my idea," Cate smiled, although I have to go and change my top," she said. "Spilled wine on it," walking out of the room. "Won't be a tick."

Using Cate's absence to set the board up more to his liking and ensuring they would both have a good light to see what they were doing, Mycroft realised that this would be the first time they had sat down together for a real game. He fully realised Cate was a complete novice, but it would be pleasurable to watch her become a more confident player. It was his hope that she might one day really be able to offer him a challenge.

Hearing Cate return to the room, Mycroft got up to pour them both a cognac, when he realised that she had indeed changed her clothes. She was back as the Black Queen. His mouth twitched.

"Allying yourself with the Gods of Chess, my love?" he smiled, handing over a glass, staring at the changes she wrought in a few minutes. Cosmetics: her lips were a dark and fetching red; her eyes shadowed and alluring. She'd also thought to bedeck herself in his favourite sapphire-and-diamond necklace and earrings. She looked absurdly enticing and with more than a hint of the courtesan. Parts of him began to sit up and take closer notice.

"Oh, I'm being a little more pragmatic than _that_, darling," she swished into her chair. "Thought we might make this game as interesting as we could," she added cryptically.

"_Meaning_?" Mycroft sipped his brandy, willing his heart-rate to slow a little.

"Meaning that for every one of the major pieces we lose, we remove an item of clothing."

Looking at Cate's perfectly straight expression, Mycroft found it impossible not to be amused. "_Strip_ chess?" he asked. "Haven't done that since Oxford."

"_Really_?" Cate's eyebrows shot up. "I expect a full confession from you later, in that case," she laughed. "With whom were you playing?"

"We were both drunk as lords," Mycroft smiled at the recollection. "It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea at the time."

Cate's eyes were still wide and anticipatory.

"Charles Shelsher." Mycroft rubbed his nose in slight embarrassment.

"You were drunk and played strip chess _with the Vice-Chancellor of the University College of London_?" Cate's voice went up and up, as, deliciously scandalised, the image he'd just supplied percolated around her brain. "How unspeakably _fabulous_."

"We were both undergraduates at the time," he said, "although Charles was quite a bit older than I. I won, of course," he added. "I distinctly remember winning that night."

"Don't tell me any more," Cate's eyes were closed as a newer image, that of a naked VC floated around her imagination. "I do not want that picture in my head."

"Never thought there'd be an opportunity to play it again," Mycroft's voice was quietly smiling.

"I thought it might defray some of my nerves," Cate wrinkled her nose.

"Are you nervous about playing me at chess?" Mycroft looked curious.

"A little," Cate admitted.

"_Darling_," Mycroft reached over for her hand. "Never, _ever_ feel that way," he smiled. "It's a game and intended to be an enjoyable pursuit."

_All very well for you to say_, Cate thought. "So, are you up for it?" she asked, a slight grin on her lips.

A deceptive nonchalance crossed Mycroft's features. "You know I could have you naked in eight moves," his voice was coolly assured.

"I think I can do better than that, my love," Cate leaned towards him, looking deep into his eyes as she touched her lips to the rim of her glass. "I believe I could achieve my objective in less than that."

Narrowing his gaze, Mycroft knew she was up to something. There was no possibility of Cate beating his game in less than eight legal moves. Therefore, she was clearly considering something illicit. He found himself strangely aroused at the idea of his wife cheating in order to further her seduction of him.

"In fact," Cate said, "I'm so confident of my ability to win this, that I'll even give you a head start." Standing, she put down her glass and reached behind her neck to undo the knot that held the black sheen of fabric together. It came away, dropping to the floor in a whisper of silk.

Mycroft's chest thudded as he realise that Cate wasn't quite naked beneath the material, although that would depend very much on one's definition of the concept of _naked_. His wife was wearing – if _wearing_ was actually the correct term – a scanty, and totally transparent black lace camisole that barely reached beneath her breasts, and the tiniest froth of the same black lace around her hips. Coughing as the cognac took that exact moment to go down the wrong way, Mycroft felt the roof of his mouth dry. He swallowed again.

Smiling as if nothing untoward was going on, Cate retook her seat, leaning back down for her glass. The way the lace moved with her body and stretched around her shape … the curved shadows of her breasts … Mycroft knew that whatever game his wife was playing, it was hardly chess. Not exactly cricket, either.

"Problem with the cognac, _darling_?" she inquired, all eyes and innocence.

Looking instead down at his white chessmen, Mycroft smiled to himself.

"Queen's pawn to d4," he said, moving the piece.

"King's knight to f6," Cate responded.

"Pawn to c4."

"Pawn to g6."

Mycroft suddenly began to feel genuinely interested. This reminded him of a Kasparov defence. He wondered what Cate had been reading. Looking across the table into her face, his eyes interrogated her thoughts. _What was she planning_?

"Knight to c3," he said.

"Pawn to d5."

"Knight takes pawn at d5."

"Bishop to g7."

"Bishop to a6."

Cate looked down. Mycroft had just taken one of her bishops. _Ah well_ … to the victor, the spoils. She stood, stepping close to his chair. His hand slid automatically up the smooth skin of her thigh.

"Choose your forfeit," she smiled down at him. "Top or bottom?"

Swallowing hard, Mycroft breathed out. "Top," he whispered.

Lifting her arms above her head. Cate wriggled out of the close-fitting lace, draping the wisp of fabric over her husband's shoulder. Stretching elegantly, she relaxed back into her chair, sipping daintily from her glass.

Mycroft looked thunderstruck, his face a microcosm of his feelings. His wife was sitting, within arms reach, practically naked in a fragment of black lace and fabulous jewellry, and he was considering playing chess? It hadn't been like this at Oxford. He would have remembered. He forced his mind back to the game.

"Queen to a4," he mumbled.

"Queen to c8," Cate smiled, relaxing back into her chair, her fingers idly stroking the soft skin of her neck. Mycroft swallowed again. It was very warm in here with the fire.

"Bishop to g5," he whispered, taking another of her major pieces.

"Looks like you win, my love," Cate stood slowly, coming to stand so close to his chair he could feel the heat of her skin. Again, his fingers automatically slipped up the smooth expanse of her thigh towards the fragment of black lace. He felt his heart began to thud beyond control. He stood, suddenly, sliding an arm around Cate's back, bringing her tight against his chest as his lips sought hers. Kissing her with a maddening passion, his fingers found the lace and began to grasp the line of it as Cate groaned softly against this mouth. Losing any thought of self-control, Mycroft crushed her to him, his arms steel around her back, his mouth hard and demanding.

"But the _game_ ..?" Cate murmured, plaintively, breathlessly.

Leaning backwards, Mycroft knocked his king flat. "Damn the bloody game," he growled, pulling her down with him to the softness of the fireside rug.

"_Stop_," she whispered. "I have to take the jewels off."

"Leave them on," he groaned softly. "_Oh God_," he ground out through a clenched jaw, "_leave them on_." His fingers kept her mouth to his own, claiming her in front of the fire, making her lips his. Cate felt her inner temperature exceed that of the flames: she loved this man more than sanity itself. Swirling in the heat and delicious frenzy of desire, Cate managed a smile.

_Less than eight moves_. She had been quite right.

#

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# Almost the end #

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The following morning, Cate was sitting in the kitchen sipping a strong coffee, when Mycroft came in.

"Sleepy-head," she grinned up at him. Usually he was the first to waken and achieve alertness. Not this morning, however.

Wrapping both arms around her, Mycroft gently bit her neck. "_Evil, immoral, wanton hussy_," he muttered against her skin.

"You say that like it's a bad thing," she laughed softly, her fingers resting along his arm.

"_Never_," he held her tight, breathing in her smell and enjoying the warm sensation of her.

Pouring him a coffee, Cate looked serious.

"I've reached a decision about this Dean's job," she said, slowly, staring into her cup. "I'm not going to continue with it." Turning to look into his eyes. "I'd rather stay a Professor and teach."

"Are you sure?" Mycroft realised this was a significant decision. It wasn't the kind of job one was usually offered more than once.

"Now that the arrangements for the Bilbao Conference are back in the hands of the administrative experts," Cate rolled her eyes are the remembrance of all those arrangements, "I realised that, while I am perfectly capable of doing the work, I am not one of nature's more enthusiastic administrators," she said, shrugging. "All that paperwork is simply too boring for words."

"What will you do now?" Mycroft inhaled the rich scent of Arabica.

"I have to speak with Shelsher about this, and then," Cate sighed, "I should be able to revert back to my old job." Lifting her eyebrows, she looked thoughtful. "I'm going to have a lot more time on my hands."

Mycroft smiled. He could guess what was coming next.

"And therefore you have decided to do what, exactly?" he asked, good-humouredly.

"After that horrible man in Spain," she said, recalling the event, "I've decided I need to be able to defend my honour in a more practical manner."

"Meaning?"

"_Hapkido_," she said, biting the rim of her cup. "I want to chose when I shall be grabbed and by whom."

"Hapkido can be dangerous," Mycroft looked doubtful. "It's not a gentle thing."

"Neither am I," Cate slid her arms around his middle. "I like the idea of dangerous."

"And grabbing you can be unsafe?" he looked down, a half-smile on his lips.

"Only for the wrong grabee," she said, softly.

"And where does that leave me?" he murmured against her ear.

"I may have to practice on you," she breathed against him.

"_Practice_?"

"Arcane and mystical physical contact …"

Smiling against her skin, Mycroft managed not to laugh. "When do you plan to begin this mystical contact?"

Sliding her fingers up between his shoulder-blades, Cate pulled herself closer against him.

"Already happening," she murmured, pressing her mouth to his.

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THE END

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**NEW STORY ... Mycroft Holmes and The Trivium Protocol**

A romance. Desire, danger and death. International mayhem; romantic conspiracy and outrageous fortune. A Cate and Mycroft story.

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Thank you to everyone who has read, enjoyed and reviewed this story. You are very kind and your comments are most appreciated.

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